


And She Was

by snow_and_dirty_rain



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Daddy Kink, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Oral Sex, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-06 01:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snow_and_dirty_rain/pseuds/snow_and_dirty_rain
Summary: Savannah is left stranded and alone with a wound going septic on her way to Hilltop Colony, when she comes across a stranger in the road who offers her sanctuary. At a price.





	1. summers long gone

**Author's Note:**

> Something blocks her path.

When I was a child, my mother owned a pale blue, beaten-up hatchback and we used to spend our summers driving in it to the beach. In hindsight, what we had considered a beach was little more than a wide ribbon of river water funnelling into the ocean. The colour of slate, glacial at any time other than mid July, with jagged rocks in the cove that cut open my left leg when I was six. Yet we still went back every summer, without fail. In the weird way that humans do. Making rituals out of nothing.   
One afternoon last year on the car ride back, with my feet pruning from ocean and drying on the dashboard, she played a song by a band called Talking Heads. I didn't know who they were, and I scarcely know now. But she laughed during the middle of the first verse and said she could have sworn the song was written for me.  
“It's obviously about a girl getting high.” I said to her.  
“Yeah, but if you forget that and actually listen,” She exhibited her point with a pause, in which I listened. “It's just like you. Quirky.”  
“Well, thanks. I'm quirky? As in odd?”  
“Not in a bad way.”   
I propped my chin on my knees and ignored her, instead poking the little grey crab swilling around in a few centimetres of dirty water in the bottom of my bucket. 

I have dreams about it often – the gelid water, the scalding bonnet of the car in the sun, the way my mother's eyes creased up in the corners like the dog-eared pages of a beloved book. With the sun working its heat into my sweat-sheathed shoulders now, the hum of insects in the brush that is the unending soundtrack to rural Georgia, it's not difficult to take myself back there. If it weren't for the infected wound seeping pus in my side.   
“If I could just get a fucking car.” I lick my lips to try and wet them. My water supply ran out two miles back, and my mouth has since between a moisture-free zone. I walk with my head bowed, staring at the bandages wrapped inexpertly around my side as if willing the wound to heal itself by sheer power of will. “Or a tractor.” I eat the last beef jerky strip in my pack. “Or a bike. Anything – I'm not fussy, you know?” I put the headphones of the Walkman in one ear, the other exposed to listen for the dead, and shout at the sky.  
“D'you fucking hear that? I'll use a tricycle to get to Hilltop if I have to!” The imaginary God I'm shouting at doesn't answer. Only the crickets chirp back, probably laughing. Gross little fuckers.  
“Whatever.” I drop the empty beef jerky packet to the ground and continue walking, hoisting my pack further up on my shoulder.   
I stare at the way the concrete has fissured over the years, from sun or the relentless duress of tyres. Light glares into my eyes from the damp ground, glittering like shards of glass, beading with the rainfall from the night before. I inwardly curse myself for not leaving a bucket out on the side of the road to catch some of the water. Another hour or two elapses, the Walkman playing the same song on repeat. I delve back into the image of the hatchback parked by the beach. The crab in the bottom of the plastic bucket. The way my mother looked, the feeling of permanence. Each summer being spent the way it had before – going to the beach, and coming back. Then the hum of a car engine and a glimpse of long shadows on the ground makes me raise my head from my reverie.  
Shit.  
In the distance, far enough so I cannot make out faces but close enough to strike fear into my heart, are a group of men standing by parked cars. Two jeeps, one large truck with a worn-down advertisement for a food outlet called Dinah's Garden, about half a dozen men. Assault rifles. Handguns in belt holsters. One of them is tending to a truck with an open bonnet, heat rising in waves into the air. Their engine must've overheated. I stop in my tracks and immediately turn in the other direction.   
What is it you're meant to do with black bears again? Walk away quietly or stand there until it leaves? I know men aren't bears but it's the closest point of reference I have. They're both large and covered in hair.  
“Hello there!” A voice calls out, and my stomach knots. My pulse begins to snap in my throat, and my mouth feels sandpaper dry. Shit shit shit. I glance over my shoulder, squint into the sun, and see one man waving in my direction.  
“You mean me?” I shakily call out. I contemplate racing into the trees and disappearing forever. I hear the man's laughter carried on the wind.  
“Well, you're the only other person here – so, yes! You.”  
“Oh.” The sound dies in my throat, and I slowly turn around to face the group. Sadly, their interest has been piqued and they watch me wolfishly. One of them whistles his appreciation of my bare midriff, and I glower in his direction.  
“Where're you headed, friend?” The man speaks again, sauntering a step closer. My eyes adjust to the light and I see he has a moustache, which he has obviously taken the time to keep up despite the collapse of society. What a prick.   
“Nowhere.” I say. “I mean, it's none of your business.” I call out, louder.   
“Well, how far away is 'nowhere'? When we have this thing up and running again, how about we give you a lift?” He sounds frighteningly jovial.   
“Thanks for the offer, but I'm good.”   
He cocks his head. “You don't look it. You have a little something-something going on there, have you noticed?” He gestures to my bandages, and I suck on my bottom lip. He's testing my patience.   
“The sooner you let me pass, the sooner I can get it sorted.”  
He considers me for a moment, grimacing into the sun. His companion smacks the bonnet of the overheated truck down and the engine starts. There's a chorus of cheers from the men, but the ringleader keeps his gaze on me.   
“We have a great doctor back at our place.” He says. Reflexively, I touch my side with tender fingers and feel the heat of the infection radiating from the wound. There's no way I'll be able to make it to Hilltop on foot before sundown, and by sundown I may be too late. The infection may have spread to my bloodstream. I remember my mother once told me it can only take a few hours to cause irreversible damage. “That looks seriously ugly.”   
“How far away is this place of yours?”  
“An hour's drive.” He looks happy that I'm even considering it. “We've got spare beds, hot food, water. We have a lady who makes ice cream – you look like you like ice cream.” Before I even have the chance to retort, he adds, “Cardamom gelato. I shit you not.”   
I'll say something funny so he's less inclined to stab me in the jugular. “Well, good. If you didn't have gelato no way would I go with you.”   
He laughs. Good enough.   
He beckons me over and I nervously step a few paces.  
“Wait.” I say, and he pauses.   
“I need insurance on this.”  
“What?” He laughs incredulously.   
“I need a guarantee that you won't do something nasty to me. Rape me, torture me, murder me. That kind of thing.” I raise my voice, clenching my fists, finding my resolve. His face falls, as if the prospect of that is ugly to him. “Your gun.” I hold out a hand. “Give it to me, and I'll give it back when I leave.”  
“You want my gun?”  
“Yeah.”   
He shrugs, crossing the distance between us. As he gets closer, I realise how tall he is and suddenly feel quite ridiculous. He's tanned, an older man with a handsome face – despite the travesty of a moustache – and warm brown eyes. The kind you wouldn't expect on a person of his stature. He hands me his gun and it's warm in my palm. He plants his hands on his hips and I notice how built his upper body is. Arms the width of my thighs.   
“We all good?” He beams.  
I nod, still looking at the aforementioned arms as I put the gun in my own holster.  
“Let's load 'er up, then. Chop chop!” 

He opens the door to the passenger seat of the largest truck, and it takes me a moment to realise he intends for me to sit next to him.  
“I'm cool in the back of the truck.”  
“With the watermelons?” He raises an eyebrow.  
“I – uh. Okay, I'll sit here instead.”   
I gingerly slide into the seat, and have to bite back the relieved sigh that wants to leave my lips. The seat is warm from the sun falling in through the dirty windscreen. The glove compartment hangs open, and I catch a glimpse of several men's magazines. A packet of cigarettes, some leather gloves. One of the magazines looks sticky, and my hands moves to touch its pages. However, he quickly reaches over and snaps it shut.  
“You don't need to see all that. Now, put your seat-belt on.” The engine hums into life and we start to drive, heading the procession of vehicles towards the West. There's several moments of silence, and I try to relax in my seat. “You want some water?” He asks.  
“I'm okay, thanks.”   
Silence again, and I turn to watch the trees race by past the window. Dappled shadow falls over the truck.   
“So... what's your name, senorita?”   
“What?” I turn to gawk at him. Did he actually just call me-  
“I'm Simon.” He smiles a winning smile – or, to be accurate, a smile that might have won someone other than me - and I realise his teeth are white and frustratingly perfect.  
“Right. Okay.” I say slowly, eyes wide. He raises his eyebrows expectantly, pursing his lips a little. Waiting. “I'm Savannah.”  
“Savannah.”   
“Yes. That's me.”  
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” I turn to face the window again and wonder what my chances of survival would be if I jumped, tucked and rolled from this vehicle. Maybe I should grab the wheel of the truck and roll us over so we die and he can't embarrass himself any further. Silence stretches and he clears his throat, seeming somewhat embarrassed. “Anyway, what're you doing out here on your lonesome?”  
“What do you mean, 'on my lonesome'?”   
“I mean, most people travel in communities. Not on their own, with a wound going septic.” He glances over at me, and I use my finger to take a peek underneath the bandages.  
“Holy mother of Christ-” I nearly choke on the words. The wound is reddened, angry and swelling. Worse than before. Simon cranes his neck to see. “Oh god, don't look-”  
He almost swears but bites back on the cuss with a hiss. He steps on the accelerator. “Well. At least Carson won't be bored anymore.”   
“Who?”  
“Our doctor. Just – just try and take your mind off it. Talk to me, okay? Don't look.”   
I swallow thickly.  
“Eyes on the road, private. I need you to scout for obstructions.” He says in a faux British accent that makes me snort. I obey him, watching the road diligently. As the moments pass, I chew the possible things I could tell him – lies, half-truths. I settle on what really happened. Just to pad out the tense silence.  
“Uhm... When this whole thing happened I was working at a summer camp. I wanted to spend the summer on the lake, and getting paid to work with kids seemed nice. Then, uh... the breakout happened. One of the kids there and I, we got separated during evacuation. Her name was Morgan.” I find my voice shaking, and I try and bite down the feeling. “Sorry, I haven't really talked to anyone about it.” Force a short laugh. “I haven't got to. God, I sound stupid.”   
“No, I'm listening.”  
“We were together for a long time. In the forest. We moved from place to place, and sometimes picked up other people. One day – not long ago, maybe a month or two actually – we found another group and we thought we'd got it good. They had lots of weapons, a camp with sturdy walls. It was by a river. Lots of fish, almost an endless supply. Uhm. Then one of the guys in the group – his name was Raoul – he...” I wipe the tears off my cheeks. “He got Morgan alone and he... uh.”  
I look up from my lap and find Simon's face has fallen.   
“You don't have to say it.”   
“...So, she got pregnant. We had to find a way for a termination – because, y'know, she was so young. No way in hell were we gonna let that happen. We threatened people for information about where to find a doctor. I threatened people. I killed people. Then we found a place where she could have the surgery. And it failed. And she died.” I bite down on my lip to stop it from quivering. I'm not crying here, now, in front of this stranger.  
“I'm so-”  
“Don't say you're sorry.” I snap. “It's just – I'm sick of people saying that.”   
He nods silently.   
“I stayed for a while and did gardening.” I scoff. “Planting fucking tomatoes when what I really wanted was... I don't know. Justice? What do you call it? Retribution? Whatever.”   
“Sounds like revenge.”  
“Sure. Revenge, then. So I left the community a few days ago, went out looking for Raoul. I went to their old fishing cabin but it had booby traps to the fucking ceiling. They must have known I'd come back and left. I nearly got my foot in a bear trap, tripped trying to get over it and fell into a rusted pitchfork instead. And the wound got infected.” I shrug, angrily swiping the tears from my eyes. “That's it. That's the whole stupid story.”  
Simon is silent for a moment. I look over and see him worrying his bottom lip. He opens his mouth to speak then closes it again, still thinking.  
“I'm going to ask my boss to let you stay as long as you want.” He says eventually. “Could be two weeks, two months, two years – it's up to you.”  
“Simon, really-”  
“Don't argue with me.” He says sternly, and I fall quiet. “You choose what to do. But I have one rule.”  
“What's that?”  
“You stay as long as Carson says you need to – you don't just up and leave before you're healed. I've seen your type before, they come for one night to rest and the next day they're trying to escape all over again. Like they're scared the world is gonna collapse on their heads if they're not running away.” He turns to fix me with his dark eyes. “I'm not having any of that shit. These doors are locking behind you the minute you come in, until Carson says you can go. You understand?”  
“I understand.” I say quietly.   
“Good.” His gaze softens. “Because we're almost there.”


	2. a running joke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A check-up.

Simon refers to the place as 'The Sanctuary', and I clear my throat as the truck growls past a rain-weathered statue of a seraph covered in severed hands. They're bound to it by rope, strung on it like beads on a rosary and looped around the crying angel's throat.   
“The Sanctuary? Don't you think that's a bit of a stretch?” I say, and he shrugs. Sees me cautiously eyeing the statue as it disappears into the distance. Behind us, someone drags the chain-link doors noisily shut with a resonant clang. Simon's words linger in my mind, and I feel my skin begin to prickle. Once those doors are shut, I'm here until I'm officially discharged.   
“Don't be put off by the hands. It's a running joke.”  
“What kind of place is this?” I eye him seriously. He worries his bottom lip for a moment. “It doesn't exactly strike me as a Good Vibes Club.”  
“I'll let Negan do the talking.” He returns his gaze to the road, shoulders tense. We ride in silence until he pulls up alongside the main building.   
I crane my neck to try and see where the sprawling facility ends – it's an old factory, boasting the imposing angularity typical of 1960's modernist architecture. Complete with utilitarian iron staircases bracketed to the side of the building and windows fogged by layers of dust and sediment so thick that they seem to be decades old. The sun winks bright off the windows like sharp teeth, and I squint against the dust kicked up by the truck. My heart is racing.   
This isn't what I expected.   
“Impressive, right? The view from the top floor is just breathtaking.” Simon enthuses, mistaking my horror for awe.   
“It's... well, it's massive.”  
“Yeah.”  
“And sort of scary.”  
He laughs this time, patting my shoulder. I follow him out into the courtyard and look around, hoisting my backpack over my shoulder and watching as Simon's companions unload armfuls of supplies from the vehicles. There's an obscene amount of food – cured meat, fresh vegetables, bottled water, and an entire weapons cache. Silencers, knives the size of my forearm with wicked serrated teeth, shotguns and assault rifles and – I swear – a small box that seems to contain lingerie. The expensive kind.   
I look to Simon questioningly, and he hoists his pants up by the belt, inhales through his nose.  
“Here he is.” He says as a figure emerges from the shadows, factory door swinging shut behind him.  
“Simon!” His voice is a deep baritone. “What the fuck have we here? Who. Is. This?”   
I look over my shoulder, searching for the mystery person.   
“He means you.” Simon murmurs.  
“What? Me?”  
“Say hello.” He chuckles, and I turn to the man. He steps into the light, and I swallow nervously. He's perhaps the same age as Simon, dark-haired and somehow leonine in appearance. He boasts a salt-and-pepper beard and languid smile, with a well-kept baseball bat slung over one shoulder. A battered leather jacket zipped over a taught, slender frame. My eyes dart between his handsome face and the glittering barbed wire teeth wrapped around the girth of the bat.  
“Hi.” I croak.   
He steps forward, boots kicking up dust behind him, and I stifle a cough. He comes so close I can smell the cocktail of sweat, cologne and alcohol that accompanies him. Silent, he studies me for a moment and smiles. Like Simon, he has frustratingly perfect teeth. I wonder if I should break the silence by asking if they have dental? His tongue moves over his bottom lip. I can feel my eyebrows travelling questioningly up my forehead, glancing anxiously between he and Simon.  
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, and he laughs as if I've told the most amusing joke.   
“I'm just swell. Far, far better now actually. Y'know, I was having a fucking awful morning trying to decide which of my wives' titties to ping-pong my dick all over, but now the answer is clear.” He beams. “You'll do just fine. Simon, thanks for finding her, I had no fucking idea you'd be so quick to get me a replacement. Is there a tree growing super hot babes out there that I don't know about? Maybe even a settlement of fucking Amazonian women, now that would be rad-”  
“What?” My cheeks burn, and I gawk. “Ping-pong your – what?”   
Simon's eyes are full of panic, and he hastily interjects. “Negan, she's not Sherry's replacement, I just found her on the road.”  
So this is their infamous leader. His words begin to make sense in my mind and I fold my arms, huffing angry breaths through flared nostrils.   
“If you found her on the road then, pray tell, why is she not still on the road? Whilst I get that we need more workers – shit, whatever cheap labour I can find I'll take – she doesn't exactly look fit to work.” He gestures to my weeping side with the tip of the barbed bat, and I flinch. “And Carson is not here for drop-in services from random fucks you take a liking to and just decide to pick up.”   
“I apologise.” Simon says, eyes on the ground at his feet. He grimaces. “I wanted to run it by you, but her wound is seriously infected. I was trying to get her here as fast as possible. I was being thoughtless.”  
I watch the exchange, how Simon willingly bends to this man. My brow furrows, but Negan seems somewhat placated.   
“I know, Simon.” Claps a hand upon his shoulder, and whether it's a pantomime of understanding or genuine I can't tell. “I gotta admit, if I saw a super hot girl on the side of the road needing help, I'd do it too. But this can't just be done for any random fuck. You understand? I'm letting it slide just this once.”  
“Thank you, Negan. I understand.”  
“Goodie.” His gaze returns to me, and I wither under its intensity. His dark eyes make me feel as if he's searching for something underneath my clothes that he badly needs. “What's your name, sweetheart?” He croons, leaning towards me, breath curling on my cheeks.  
I feel my cheeks burn up, and I plant my hands on his leather-clad chest and push him away. He grins, seeming to relish the contact.   
“Not sweetheart.” I mumble.  
“This is Savannah.” Simon speaks up, the smile on his face twitching as he watches Negan's advances.  
“Savannah. Man, what a gorgeous-”  
“We should really get her to Carson as quickly as possible.” Simon's face blanches as Negan regards him stonily, frustrated to be interrupted mid-flirtation. Silence throbs in the dusty courtyard and, for a moment, I think he's going to punch the taller man. Negan squares up to Simon, who stands several inches taller, and I feel my pulse start to race as I pick up on the quiet, bristling fury emanating from both men.  
“He's right.” I say quickly. “I mean, I get that I'm not really wanted here – I was only planning on recovering and then leaving as soon as possible.”   
“We shall see.” Negan says darkly, before clapping Simon on the shoulder. Hard. “Take our guest to see Carson, then bring her to me. I'll show her where she'll be sleeping.” He grins wickedly, and the subtext is making my palms sweat.   
“Yes, sir.”  
“Fan-fucking-tastic! That's why you're my right hand man, Simon. So good at following orders.” He says before sauntering past to deal with the supplies behind us. Simon silently shows me inside the building, and the air feels heavy. Buzzing.  
We walk in silence throughout the grey-walled, concrete gut of the Sanctuary, and I observe the masses of people dressed in weathered clothes. Their eyes tired and sunken, cheekbones prominent. They work on the factory floor, where the sun makes the iron of the work benches scalding hot and dust rises to the ceiling. In fact, every person there seems embroiled with a thin layer of grime. All except several men and women dressed similarly to Simon – shiny boots, tanned skin, freshly-pressed shirts.   
Simon strides in front of me, and I tug on his sleeve.  
“Can you slow down a bit? Sorry, I can't keep up.” I gesture to the wound, and he suddenly looks ashamed by his own behaviour.  
“Shit, I'm sorry – I wasn't thinking.” He slows his gait beside me. “I can carry you, you know.”   
I laugh, and the corners of his mouth quirk. I wouldn't mind seeing him smile again.  
“You don't have to do that. I'm heavier than I look.”  
“I doubt it.”  
“Seriously, I'm unusually dense.”   
He does laugh this time, and bends over in front of me. What is he doing? Is he showing me his ass?   
“Hop up.” He says. I glance around and see that some of the factory workers have looked up from their construction work.  
“This is embarrassing-”   
“No, it's not.”  
“People are staring!”  
“They're just jealous because you get a ride and they don't. C'mon!”   
I awkwardly clamber onto his back, face burning, wrapping my arms around his neck. He loops his hands around the back of my knees and hoists me higher onto his back, and I yelp. Feeling completely ridiculous, he stands up and starts walking through the crowd, completely undeterred. A woman in a bullet-proof vest is sniggering into the collar of her jacket.   
“How're you doing up there?” She says as we pass her, and I bury my face Simon's shoulder as I wait for the humiliation to end. “She's shy.”   
“Arat, leave her alone.” I can hear the smile in his voice.   
Like a towering, bipedal monster, we amble through the doorway.   
“Is this how it feels to be you every day?” I laugh, and his chuckle sends vibrations throughout his body. Into me. I swallow thickly, suddenly conscious of the sheer size of him and how he doesn't seem to tire as he carries me. The skin of his throat touches my arm and the contact thrums like a live-wire. I want to touch him. The realisation makes me hyper-aware of my legs wrapped around his hips, my breasts pressed against his back. Without meaning to, I squirm and feel my sex press against him, my hair brushing his cheek.  
Fuck, this can't be good.   
“We're here!” He announces, carefully leaning down whilst I disentangle myself from his body. My face flushed, I drop to the ground and pat myself down. I realise I'd momentarily forgotten about my wound. I glance furtively up at him, searching his face for any evidence of... well, I don't know what. Anything abnormal. He simply looks happy, contented. He raps on the door before us, and it opens.   
“What is – Simon, who is this?” A tall, stooping man with a vaguely sheep-like face peers into the corridor.   
“A new patient.” He tucks his thumbs into his belt loops. “Who needs your urgent attention.”  
Doctor Carson's eyes move over me, widening in alarm as he spots the wound in my side. He ushers me into the clinic and panic begins to set in.  
“I'm going to need you to wait outside.” Carson says, and Simon nods, expression peppered with concern.   
“I'll find you later, okay?” He says, a little awkward as he backs away from the door.  
“Bye.” I breathe as Carson shuts it in his face, and I find myself alone with the doctor.

 

“What caused the wound?” Carson enquires.  
“Rusted pitchfork.”   
“So we need a tetanus too.” He pushes me back onto the chair in the middle of the room. “Hold still, I'm going to get you out of these clothes so I can see the wound clearly.”   
I nod, clenching my hands by my sides and focussing on the ceiling as he cuts my clothes from my with scissors. Rubber gloved fingers prod the wound, and I jerk in the seat.  
“How many hours ago did this happen?”  
“I can't – oh god, a day ago? Yesterday. Before sunset.”  
“Nearly 24 hours.” He murmurs to himself. “Have you fainted since?”  
“No.”  
“Experienced any nausea or dizziness?”  
I pause, frowning to recall. “A little. I thought it was from the sun.”  
“Have you vomited since yesterday?”  
“No.”  
“Are your bowel movements-”  
“They're fine!”   
“Okay.” He sighs, searching his cabinets and returning with a clear solution. Daubs the fluid on some cloth, and starts cleaning the wound. I feel relief begin to flood my body as the stinging sensation persists. I glance down to see some yellowish fluid seeping from the two long incisions, and silently watch as he washes the blood and gore from them.  
“They look smaller now.” I exhale, and he nods.  
“The good news is, the infection doesn't seem fatal. If it were, you'd be running a high fever, and feel faint and nauseous, among many other things. You could have tetanus, however.”  
“Oh. Great.”   
He turns away for a moment, fervidly searching through drawers once more.  
“Am I going to die from that?”  
“Tetanus, in some cases, is known to be fatal. The infection affects the respiratory muscles and interferes with breathing, which means-”  
“Am I going to die, though?” I say as he takes a syringe from a packet and fills it with liquid. “I mean, I'd just like to know. So I can prepare and stuff.” He takes my arm in his hand and slaps the flesh until a vein becomes prominent. Then he inserts the needle, and I flinch.   
“Prepare?”  
“Yeah, like... eat something good before I go. Maybe watch a movie. Or something.”  
“That won't be necessary.” Apparently sarcasm is lost on Dr Carson, who promptly gives me a packet of oral antibiotics and demands I take three, one after every meal. He presses butterfly stitches over the incisions on my abdomen and snaps his rubber gloves off his hands and into a little bin in the corner of the room, along with my ruined t-shirt and bra. He looks me up and down uncomfortably, hunched over semi-naked on the chair, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.   
“Those haven't been infected, have they?” He gestures hesitantly to my breasts, where I glance down and remember that I happen to have titanium running through my nipples, and that some people are freaked out by that.  
“Oh – the piercings? No, they're cool.”   
“And they were – they were pierced with a sanitary needle, correct?”  
“I've had them for years.” I bite back laughter. “They're alright.”   
“Very well.” He says conclusively, packing up his supplies. “I'll have someone fetch you a new shirt.”  
“How long until I can be discharged?” I ask quickly, and he looks up from the cabinet filled with syringes.   
“Hmm?”  
“Simon told me I have to stay here until you officially discharge me. I was wondering how long that might be?” I kick my feet over the linoleum floor impatiently.   
“Well, it's hard to tell...”  
“Can you estimate?” I'm getting crabby, grinding my teeth and folding my arms over my chest.   
“Perhaps two weeks.”  
“Two weeks?” I exclaim, gawking. Carson and I both jump as someone raps loudly on the door.  
“I'm comin' in!” The deep baritone makes me shimmy off the chair and throw my arms over my chest. The door swings open and Negan enters, leather jacket unzipped, hair slightly tousled. Grinning the kind of lazy, cat-like grin of a man who's recently had a blow-job. He sees me and his dark eyes glitter. “Ooh, it's a good day indeed!”   
I turn my back to him and glower over my shoulder, and Carson bristles uncomfortably between the two of us. I feel Negan's eyes voraciously devouring the length and breadth of my back.   
“I'm sorry, I seem to have walked in on a tender moment. Should I leave you both?” He croons, and I can feel the rage bubble in the pit of my gut.  
“I was just asking how long it will be until I can leave.” I say through gritted teeth, and Negan's lips purse, frustration peppering his brow.   
“You've just got here.”  
“Simon and I had a deal – I can leave when the Doctor discharges me as recovered.”   
“You and Simon may have had a deal, but I can override that at any time. Perhaps I should remind you, he doesn't run things here.” Puts a hand on his chest in patronising sincerity. “I do. I say jump, he says “how fucking high, Negan?” I tell him to get on his knees and suck my balls? He fucking does it.” He pauses, relishing the way my nose crinkles in distaste. “You understand?”  
“Yeah.” I mumble.   
“I don't want to go hard proving a point, sweetheart – not with a sick girl. I'm not a monster. But if you skirt my rules, I'll keep you here long after you're due to be discharged. Shit, you cause any trouble and I'll keep you here long after Carson here is dead in the ground.” Then he exhales, runs his nails through his beard. “Speaking of – Carson, get her a shirt.”  
“I – I don't know where to get one-”  
“Okay then, fuck that.” He sighs, unzipping his leather jacket and handing it to Carson, who holds it like it may burn him. I swallow as Negan casually drags his grey t-shirt over his head and tosses it to me. I catch it in one hand and begrudgingly shoulder it on as he stands proudly in the middle of the room. I try to resist the urge to look, but my curiosity gets the better of me.  
He's lean and broad-shouldered, tanned chest covered in dark, wiry hair. Old tattoos pepper his shoulders and arms, faded into blue and green by age and almost indiscernible. Several scars glint like wolf teeth in the light coming through the surgery window – one of them is deep and low on his hip, faded by time to lilac, disappearing past the belt of his pants. He's wrought with lean muscle, and I catch myself staring, which I'm positive is the desired effect.  
“Carson. Thanks.” He extends his hand for his jacket, still watching me wolfishly as he slides it on and zips it up. Just low enough for some of his chest hair to still be visible. “Let's go, Savannah.”   
He turns on his heel and leaves, and I hurry along after him. 

 

He looks smug as he leads me through the building, up several flights of iron stairs. I find it hard to keep up with his long-legged gait, and hop up the steps two at a time. I watch as people sink onto their knees as we pass.  
“Do they always do that?” I ask, and he nods. Casts a mischievous look over his shoulder towards me, his hickory eyes following the lines of my body. The way his shirt clings to my chest.   
“Did it hurt?” He asks, stopping for a moment.  
“Wait – what?”   
“When you got your nipples pierced. Did it hurt?” The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and I give a yelp of horror as I discover his t-shirt does nothing to cover my modesty. I angrily squash my arms over the offending breasts, trying to press them into non-existence.  
“Well, yeah – of course. You try getting metal put through your body.” I huff.   
“Did you cry?” He cocks his head, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip.  
“No.” I pause, and he raises his eyebrows. As if waiting for me to say more. “I swore a lot though, I guess.”  
“That's pretty fucking bad-ass.” He laughs. “Hot. Can I touch 'em?”  
“No!”   
“Okay. Maybe another time.” 

 

He leads me into a top-floor apartment overlooking the courtyard filled with the dead below. It's beautifully-furnished, with a liquor cabinet set against the far wall that nearly reaches the ceiling, giving the room a pungent scent of alcohol. There are two black couches dressed in clusters of cushions – velvet, gold, satin, an array of fabrics that had slipped from my memory as existent – and on these couches are women. Five women, in tailored black dresses. All beautiful, a myriad of races, hair colours and nationalities. As sedentary and domesticated as well-kept houseplants.  
I still in the doorway as Negan saunters past, gaze roving possessively over each of them. The situation dawns on me uncomfortably.   
“Ladies.” He announces, and I feel the bile rise up in my throat. “How are we all doing this fine-”  
“Is this a harem?” I ask, and a tense silence follows. Negan blinks several times, as if shocked by my astuteness. The women in the room suddenly become conscious of my presence, turning to look at me. One of them, with long fair hair like a waterfall, regards me with panic, as if I've said something I shouldn't.  
“This here is Savannah.” He ignores my question, gestures towards me with an outstretched arm, looking amused. “She's recovering here from an injury – she'll be sleeping in Sherry's room. So play nice.” He looks like he wants for anything but that.   
“I'm not staying here.” I laugh incredulously. “This is ridiculous – you actually, seriously – you're with all these women? God. That's gross.”   
It's as if the air in the room itself suddenly stills. The blonde girl by the window covers her mouth with her hand and looks away, and a redhead reading a book on one of the couches looks up from its pages. She slides it behind a cushion and slowly starts to rise to her feet. Negan's expression has gone from amusement to stony fury. He paces towards me.  
“I get what you're thinking – this is some fucked-up shit, right?” He whispers. “Thing is, they're all here because they want to be. I'll let that sink in for a moment. You seem like a smart girl, so I don't want to patronise you, but you should know better than to weigh-in your opinion on something you don't know shit about.”  
“I don't want to stay here.” I answer quietly, hands shaking by my sides. His eyes burn into mine.   
“Then where shall we put you, hmm? I could put you in Simon's room, god knows he seems to like you.” He bristles as he says it, nose wrinkling. “Maybe you could room with the Doctor, who wasted no time in getting your clothes off. Shit, maybe you'd rather sleep out in the courtyard surrounded by dead pricks? We don't have an unlimited supply of beds, Savannah.”   
“Just not here.” I hiss, and he cocks his head.   
“Does it offend your delicate sensibilities to be sleeping near my wives?” He raises an eyebrow, tongue pushed against his teeth. Ruminating over something. “Do you want to kip at the end of my bed like a puppy, is that it? Is that the issue we're having here? Because we can do that-”  
“Screw you, man.” I retort, cheeks burning, and he inhales sharply. His jaw tenses as rage flickers in his eyes. He exhales through his nose, calming himself.  
“Make a decision, before I throw you out of here myself. I wonder how long it'll take before those wounds open up and get re-infected.” His voice is a deadly monotone.   
“Simon.” I say suddenly, avoiding his gaze.   
He stills for a moment, regarding me with an indiscernible expression.   
“Simon?” His mouth twists cruelly. “Are you sure?”  
“Y-yes.” I find myself hanging my head, humiliated. I feel the eyes of everyone in the room roam over me, judgemental. I clench my fists at my side, forcing myself to look up into Negan's dark eyes. His jaw twitches as he watches me.  
“Then it's settled.” He says, and the words are like ice being poured down the back of my – his – shirt.


	3. una noche con el

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night alone with Simon.

It's several hours later and I'm shifting awkwardly from foot to foot outside the door of the bedroom I've been told is Simon's. In my arms is a soft white towel and a toothbrush, as well as clean underwear – which one of Negan's wives begrudgingly bestowed on me – and fresh clothes for the next morning.   
“I know what you're thinking.” The blonde girl – Amber, someone called her, I think - whispered as she handed me the fragile lace undergarments, her fair brow furrowed. “It's disgusting – but we chose this for ourselves. He wasn't lying.”  
“I didn't mean that I thought you were gross.” I replied, ashamed as I accepted the clothes. “I meant him.”  
“What's the difference, really?” She shrugged, moving her long hair over her shoulder. “You're lucky he didn't kill you for talking like that.”  
“Does he usually do that?” I asked after her, but she'd already disappeared into her own bedroom.   
“Okay, so...” I murmur to myself, rolling the toothbrush between my fingers. “Hi, Simon! I know we just met but I got in trouble with your rampantly-sexual boss and now I have to sleep with you.” I say to the closed door. “Not with you, just in the same room as you. But it's cool because I don't take up much room – I can fold up like an accordion and just, like, slot under your bed. You won't even know that I'm there, I'm super quiet. Like a ninja-”  
“Who're you talking to?” Says a familiar voice and I give a spasmodic jerk, almost dropping the objects in my arms. I turn to see Simon eyeing me questioningly, his shadow drawn out over the door. “What're you-”  
“I, uhm. Right, I can actually explain-” I hold out a hand to stop him, face alight with panic. There is no way this can sound good. “I annoyed your boss because I didn't want to sleep with his harem.” That sounded more eloquent in my head.  
Simon cocks his head, one dark eyebrow lifted.   
“What basically happened is, I didn't want to sleep in his old wife's bed. Because it grossed me out. So he told me I had to find somewhere else to sleep otherwise he'd put me outside with the corpses, so I – like – I panicked-”  
“And you said you were going to sleep in my room?” He grins, and for a moment my anxiety ebbs into relief.   
“I didn't have much of a choice.” I exhale, slumping against the door-frame. “I'm sorry.”   
“I can sleep on the couch.”  
“You look too long for a couch. I can sleep there.”  
“Too long for a couch?”   
“Yeah, like a frankfurter sausage in a really short bun. It'll look weird, and I'll feel guilty.”   
“Just keep your voice down and get inside.”   
He unlatches the door with deft fingers and opens it for me.   
Inside is Simon's apartment, a neatly-kept space with wide dust-fogged windows overlooking the dense forests of Georgia, the trees silhouetted black in the evening. I actually exhale, shoulders dropping in relief, as I catch a glimpse of the view. The stars almost nude through a translucent, filmy fog of cloud. The sliver of the moon like a twisted knife slicing the black sky open. Crickets singing down below, the walking dead distantly groaning and shuffling from foot to foot like placid dogs.   
He closes the door gently behind me, leaning in to almost brush my ear as he does so. I feel my cheeks heat up as I catch a glimpse of his bed – king-sized, with cream covers and an assortment of cushions that look handmade. On his night-stand is a reading lamp, which exudes the only light in the room – a soft golden glow that illuminates the half-open book on his pillow and makes his skin look copper.   
“It's really, uh...” I choke on the words as I imagine him on that bed. I look around, panicking for a moment that there will be no couch, then my eyes clap upon it. Dark brown leather, placed opposite a beaten-up looking armchair. To my left is a small kitchen, a humming fridge, and a window open on the first latch that lets in the balmy night air. So that's why I can hear crickets.  
“The view is nice, right?” He supplies, seeming a little shy. Almost embarrassed of his possessions. I catch sight of something above the headboard of his bed, and my mouth falls open.  
“Shit, that's beautiful.” Mounted on his wall is an aged oil painting of a man astride a white horse. The creature is bucking underneath him, hoofs rimmed with dirt and poised in the air. The thing is a swathe of reds, creamy whites, chromatic browns and greens in the dirt. I realise how long it's been since I've seen a piece of art.   
“You like art?” His eyebrows are raised, and he sounds suddenly impassioned. I laugh at the absurdity of the question, before remembering that before today, this man had no idea I was even alive, let alone what I liked or didn't like.  
“Of course! Dude, I used to study it. Devoted nearly every day to it. I haven't... fuck, I can't remember the last time I've drawn something. Or someone.” I'm giggling, dragging the hem of my t-shirt over my mouth. “Wow. It's weird looking at a painting again. It makes it like almost none of this ever happened. I feel... almost normal.”  
I can feel him watching me, head cocked, curious. When I nervously meet his gaze, the brown eyes are warm and leaping with unasked questions. He puts his hands on his hips and tries to gather himself.  
“Did you just call me 'dude'?” He asks after a moment or two, the beginnings of a grin playing around his mouth. “How old are you, again?” Teasing me.  
“I'm on the ancient side of twenty.” My heart is pounding, I discover. “I haven't even said 'dude' in about three or four years, I'm pretty sure. Blaming it on that,” I point to the painting.   
“I picked it up from a community not far from us – Hilltop colony. If you want, I can take you there on a run one day. Old prick who runs the place has too many paintings to even know what to do with. We could take them all.” We. He and I.   
“That'd be cool.” I reply. Decide not to tell him that Hilltop was my original destination – part of me is worried that if I tell him, he'll offer to drop me off there indefinitely. And I'll go back to growing fucking tomatoes. My head is level with his sternum, and I find myself anxiously glancing up at the slim silver chain around his neck. His collarbones, the way his shirt is taught over his arms and chest. He smells of the blue agave and salt in Tequila, pine trees, sweat. He moves towards me and I feel my pulse snap hard and fast, thinking for a moment he's about to touch me. Instead, he takes the towels and clothes from my hands and places them at the foot of his bed. I bite my lip, hoping he doesn't notice the underwear Amber gave me.   
“Have you eaten at all?”  
“Yeah. I had something in the mess hall earlier.” And what an experience that was. Being surrounded by dirty, hairy men leering over me whilst I tried to eat some kind of vegetarian curry. “But thanks.”   
“You got any room for dessert?” He grins impishly, and for a moment I simply stare back, trying not to let my eyes roam his body. That's not what he was implying, Sav, stop it. “Or a drink at least? It's no fun if I can't play host. And people tell me I'm unusually good at mixing cocktails.”  
“I-I don't actually drink.”   
He grumbles low in the back of his throat, disapproving. “Looks like I'm gonna have to feed you to the corpses after all. Such a shame, I was really beginning to like you, Savannah. But you've disappointed me.” The facade of seriousness cracks and he beams.  
“If it'll make you feel fulfilled, I'll try something.” I say, and he claps his hands together and makes his way into the kitchen.   
“Excellent. Vamanos!”  
“What?”  
“Means 'let's go!'” He explains, opening the fridge and withdrawing an orange and lime, before fishing a tray of ice cubes from the freezer along with what I recognise as cocktail shakers.  
“Is this what you do on a normal evening?”  
He shrugs a shoulder. “Normally if I want a drink I'll just whip up a quick gimlet or something simple.” He cuts open an orange and licks the juice off his thumb. “But sometimes I get to show off in front of Negan when he gets bored or, y'know... uh, other people.”  
I lean over the kitchen counter, watching him as he stoops to procure several bottles from a wooden rack in the corner of the room.   
“Sadly, I only have a handful of things at the moment. We're low. I have pastis, dry vermouth, and gin. Some brandy in the cupboard, too, but I don't think you'll like that.” He regards me as if trying to figure me out. “Reckon you don't want a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. I can make you a Bronx Empress, if you like oranges.”  
“It sounds fancy.” Too fancy for me. I feel myself blushing, and move my hand to cover my cheek as I prop myself on one elbow.  
“It's Spanish.” He grins, cocking his hip to one side. There's something pleasant about just letting him talk. “But not fancy – you could do this real easy.”   
“To impress someone?”  
He looks a little dumbfounded, as if I've caught him doing something he shouldn't be.  
“Oh. Am I that obvious?” He laughs, cheeks coloured.   
“It's working.” I add before I can stop myself, and his embarrassment seems to subside. He flashes me a smile and talks me through making the cocktail as he does it, speaking in excited bursts and Spanish turns of phrase that go completely over my head. Before I can pluck up the courage to ask him anymore questions, he finds a cocktail glass – a cocktail glass, somehow beautifully intact, even at the end of the world – and the drink is complete.  
“Holy crap.” I tilt my head to gawk at its sunset orange colour. The way it looks like fog poured into the glass. “Are you sure I should drink it and not just admire it from a safe distance?”  
He snorts and I pick up the glass in nervous hands, trying to figure out how best to react if I hate it. Gin disgusts me. But I wanted to let him show off. I take an anxious sip, and find my shoulders relaxing in pleasant surprise.   
“Fuck.” I drink a little more, curious. The bitter taste of the gin is subdued by orange, enough to make me want to down the whole thing.  
“Is that a good 'fuck'?”  
“It's a really great 'fuck'.” He meets my gaze and I see him biting back laughter. “Wow, you're a child.”  
“Speaking of children; it's bedtime for you.” He says as he clears up the remainder of the ingredients. “Bathroom's to your right – you're taking the bed.”  
“But-”  
“No arguing.” He squeezes my shoulder and the contact makes me go weak at the knees. I lick my lips and taste oranges as I make my way to the shower. 

 

I carefully saturate the washcloth with hot water and pat down my body, avoiding my tender side. I swallow an antibiotic with a gulp of water from the tap and check the wounds – less fluid, slightly less redness. The pain still curled itself like a barbed tail into my side, but the alcohol had done something to subdue it. Certainly enough to sleep. I brush my teeth and check the pile of clothes for some pyjama pants.  
“Oh. Fucking fantastic.” Whether by the will of the universe or for Negan's own amusement, I find myself to be lacking anything I could wear as pyjamas other than his t-shirt. “Fuck!” I throw the washcloth at the wall and it sticks with a wet shlup to the tiles.   
“Everything okay?” I hear Simon's voice, and I jerk in shock. I'd nearly forgotten he was out there.  
I pout for a moment and debate how to play this, before eventually settling on the option that has the highest chance of getting me clothed.   
“Your fearless leader forgot to give me pyjama pants.” I say with my mouth to the door, and I swear I hear him snicker.   
“You sure there aren't any there?”  
“I think he wants the whole world to see my ass.” I announce.  
“Well, we can't have that. Hold on!”   
Several moments later Simon is passing me a pair of soft grey jogging pants through the semi-open door. I tighten the towel around my body.  
“Thanks.” I murmur, humiliated.   
“No problem.”  
“Seriously, thanks for being so nice to me. I... well, it's not exactly normal nowadays to just give someone a place to rest and recuperate.” I hear him walk away and change into the pants, resisting the urge to examine myself in the mirror because I know exactly what I look like – an interloper wearing men's clothes.   
I emerge into the room and share an awkward glance with Simon, who gets up from reading a book in the armchair. Any attempt at conversation dies in my throat when I realise he is wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt.   
“Sorry, that was my only pair of pyjama bottoms. Now you gotta look at me like this.” He rubs his brow and lies down across the couch, dragging a duvet over himself. He looks tired. I side-step onto his bed and lean over to flick off the bedside lamp, shuffling awkwardly underneath the covers.   
“You don't have to thank me for letting you stay. Wasn't my call.” He says in the dark, and the crickets chirrup in the silence. My muscles relax and I sink into the mattress. “If I let you go on walking, I would've carried it with me all day. All week. I don't know, I just felt compelled.”  
“I'm grateful.” I curl onto my side and realise these sheets smell like him. The nostalgia the smell gives me is so potent that my eyes begin to brim with tears. To be in a warm bed that smells of someone else, it made me feel somehow safe. Reminded me of all the times my mother and sister would sleep in the same bed as me to avoid my drunken father. We'd have a chair propped under the door to keep him out. It was the only thing that made us feel safe. “Simon, are you still awake?”  
“Mhhmm.” He grumbles in that deep gravely voice of his.   
“I was talking to one of Negan's wives earlier. Her name was Amber. She said something that made me think... what kind of place is this, Simon?” I whisper, and I can feel him tense as he listens to me.   
“We're bringing civilisation back.” He says. “Brick by brick. Rule by rule. You know the saying ' you gotta break some eggs to make an omelette?'”   
“I don't like how that sounds.” I whisper.   
“Things here aren't always good. People have to be punished for not obeying the rules, and sometimes it's ugly.” He sighs softly. “There's a price to pay for safety. But believe me, you're safe.” I can almost feel his arms around me as he says it. But my stomach still feels uneasy. “Negan will be talking to the workers tomorrow morning – come with me, and he'll explain everything to you.”  
“Okay.” I try to placate the anxiety swelling in my stomach.   
“G'night, Savannah. Try and sleep.” He says, and the words are like velvet.  
“Night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to do such a ridiculous amount of research for the drinks mentioned in this chapter - it was so laborious, but ultimately worth it. I spent most of my time writing feeling super, super thirsty. And not just for Simon.  
> Constructive crit is welcome as always. Enjoy!


	4. raoul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She feels the heat of the furnace.
> 
> Warnings for sexual content.

I wake up screaming in the dark. Hands smothering my mouth, pushing me down into layers upon layers of foliage, swallowing me and shuddering around my body. The stench of wet pine seeping from my rain-soaked hair, dripping into my mouth, past clammy fingers trying to claw my lips closed. His eyes blistering in the gloom.  
“No.” The ever-present rage churning in my gut. “You did this – you deserve to die-”  
“I was just taking what's mine.” His fingers squeeze my wrists until I hiss through my teeth, thrashing in the undergrowth, the crickets chirruping happily somewhere far away. Like an audience to his assault. He pushes my face into the dirt and I taste grass in my mouth. “I'm sure she liked it.”   
I scream, lashing out underneath him, kicking my legs. But he sinks his body weight on top of me and the ground swallows us both, a living, digesting stomach stinking of the dead.   
I kick something soft. Gasp for breath but I find that I cannot draw any air, and I start to panic.  
My eyes fly open as I jerk awake, blinking in the pale blue light of dawn.   
Fuck. That wasn't real?  
I shudder, my skin beading with sweat under the clothes and the covers. For a moment I lie, prostrate and disorientated, struggling to remember where I am. Why the ceiling fan looks so unfamiliar. Why there's the sound of calm, steady breathing coming from the couch. I roll over onto my other side, trying to shake the cobwebs of the nightmare from my mind. Patting down the covers, I crane my neck to see Simon, fast asleep.   
“Raoul.” I whisper to myself, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and blinking to keep myself awake. I inhale and almost smell the scent of the man from my dream. Prop myself up and simply breath for several minutes, trying to calm the rabbit-fast palpitation of my heart. “But he's not here. You're safe. Safe as you can be.”   
I watch the man in front of me as my panic dissipates and ebbs into awareness of my situation. The wound, the doctor, the man in the leather jacket. And him. The stranger who made me a Spanish cocktail in the middle of the night. His back is to me, the sheets tangled around his hips and long legs. I was right when I said he was too long for the couch - his feet dangle over the edge and twitch in sleep. Pale beams of morning-light illuminate the long-toed feet and ankles that melt into muscular calves. He has one arm over his face, and his t-shirt has hitched itself up around his middle. I can see a sliver of tanned back, and it's enough to make all the heat in my body flood between my thighs.  
“Shit.” I mouth, rubbing my legs together like a cicada in the hope that the affectation will subside. It only gets worse, and I find myself breathing heavily. He looks so deep in sleep... could I? I realise with crushing shame that I'm, first and foremost, an exhibitionist and, secondly, a pervert and naturally want to masturbate at this moment. Any echo of my nightmare now gone, I curiously let my hand wander across my stomach, to the waistband of the pyjama pants. “I'm really doing this. Wow. I'm fucked up.” The words ghost past my lips, and I bite my lip as he murmurs sleepily. Groggy, deep mumbling that sounds delicious. Screw it.  
I trace circles over my clit, biting back a grin at the way my heart races at the thrill of being caught. Regardless of my hands being under the sheets, I know there's no way he would be able to mistake my blown-wide pupils and hazy eyes if he suddenly woke up. Somehow this spurs me on further, and I picture him pushing me face-down onto that couch and rocking his hips against me. His large hands curling into my hair and tugging my head back. I envision him growling against my throat with his muscle-wrought arms coiling around my stomach, pinning me against him as he fucks me. The sound of his balls slapping my clit as pre-cum slicks his thighs, the base of his cock, dripping onto the couch.   
He rolls over and I see how blissfully peaceful he looks in sleep – full, upward-tilting lips parted slightly, black eyelashes soft on his cheeks. Hair a tousled mess. The impulse to sloppily kiss that mouth makes me lose my slender grasp on my self-control. I slide two fingers inside myself and gasp quietly at the sensation, covering my mouth with my hand, only too late. He blinks one eye open and I still like a racoon caught stealing a half-eaten bagel from someone's garbage can in the middle of the night. That really ruined the moment I was having. Shit shit shit.  
He watches me for a moment or two as my heart pounds and my entire lower body throbs. Then he grumbles something unintelligible and rolls over onto his back, right arm falling over his face.   
I collapse back against the mattress and contemplate using the pillow case as a bag to breathe into. Instead, I opt for curling into a foetal ball under the covers and chastising myself quietly.   
“He was technically still asleep, so will he remember? No. No, I mean, he's probably going to wake up and think it was a weird dream. Hopefully.” I hiss to myself, before reappearing from the covers and sliding onto my feet. I carefully pad to the bathroom, not daring to glance over my shoulder as I do so. However, I swear I feel eyes following me as I disappear into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. 

Several failed attempts at orgasm and one far-too-hot shower later, I awkwardly shuffle back into the living room, dressed in fitted black jeans and a soft, white cotton t-shirt. I fold my arms across my chest to try and disguise the way the sheer black lace bra is slightly visible through my shirt, curling my socked toes against the wooden floorboards. In front of me is Simon, halfway through buttoning his own shirt, the headphones of my Walkman over his ears and mussing his hair.  
“Is this the real deal?” He says loudly, pointing to the headphones.   
“What do you mean?” I deposit my dirty clothes in the woven basket by the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of several blood-stained shirts and dirty pants protruding from its sides. My eyes linger for a moment on the dried gore before returning to Simon, who is beaming, shaking his head as if he can't believe it.  
“Is this a real Sony Walkman? Holy shit, it's been a long time since I've held one of these.” He enthuses, catching my eye and slowly sliding the headphones onto his neck. Humiliation bristles through me as I hear the opening notes of that song, the one that tethered me to the beach. To the hatchback searing with summer heat. My mother. “Sorry.” He whispers. “Got a little excited.”  
“It's real. I, uh... I found it in a vintage store not longer after everything went to shit.”  
“That's one way of describing it. So non-grandiose.” He quirks his eyebrows and, looking a little embarrassed by his enthusiasm, hands the Walkman to me. Drops it carefully into my open palms, and our fingers nearly touch. I audibly gasp, biting my bottom lip.   
“Thanks.” I manage, and he plants his hands on his hips. In my peripheral vision is the couch I imagined him fucking me into, and I clear my throat, feeling heat race to the surface of my skin.  
“That's the only song you have on there.” He says as his deft fingers work the buttons of his shirt.  
“What?” I blurt, distracted by his tanned hands with their calluses and long fingers.   
“Talking Heads. 'And She Was.' I had you down as more of a 'Psycho Killer' kind of girl. Am I wrong?” He tucks the silver chain of his necklace into his t-shirt and I'm momentarily silenced by the warmth in his eyes.   
“Well, I... honestly, I'm not into the band. Just that one song.”   
“Oh. Well, what kind of music do you usually listen to?” He asks me as we sit on the floor and lace our boots – almost identical, I realise, except for his feet being twice the size of mine.   
“I used to listen to a bit of everything, I think. Mostly indie stuff. Or movie soundtracks.” My fingers can't seem to tie knots this morning. I flounder with the laces as my hands shake, and I huff under my breath, watching the floor instead.  
“You okay?” He asks, sliding a little closer. “Here, let me-”  
“I – I can-”  
“Shush.” He reaches over and takes my foot into his lap, and I clench my hands into fists by my sides. I glance up into his face, quietly focused as he ties my laces for me, looking for some sharp barb of mockery or malice. But I see none. One of his hands holds my ankle gently as he sets my foot back down and works on the other.   
“I know I'm young, but I can tie my own laces.”   
“Your hands were shaking.” I swear I glimpse a hint of a smile through his moustache.   
“I don't know – maybe I'm hungry or something.” I supply.   
“It's okay to be nervous.” He says with a seriousness that disarms me.  
“I suppose.” I nod, stomach flipping. “Shit, I haven't had anyone tie my shoelaces for me since I was ten.”  
“Oh, not long ago then.”   
“I'll kick you in the teeth.”  
“Uh huh.”  
He sets down my other foot and I get up, swinging my rucksack over one shoulder. Simon pulls on a chestnut brown leather jacket – double breast pockets, soft cream fleece on the inside, smelling of tobacco – and nods towards the door, a silent gesture for us to leave.

Dawn has long melted into mid-morning sunshine, and it falls over the entirety of the Sanctuary, filling every crevice and illuminating every furred particle of dust hanging in the air. On the factory floor workers trade paper scraps in various colours – Simon tells me this is their currency, a points system – and go about their work with sunken cheeks and dirt-embroiled clothes. One man tends a large furnace with an open maw, snarling with fire, pouring molten metal into moulds in the shape of arrowheads and axes. Another hunches over his workbench, arranging springs and coils inside a large stereo with copper-stinking fingers. Through the mirage of tired eyes and sun-wizened skin, a man with blonde hair slips between the crowds. I see him pocket a loaf of bread and a small jar of honey.  
“Is he allowed to do that?” I stop Simon by pulling on his shirtsleeve – as seems to be my instinct, and also the highest point on his body that I can reach without the aid of a long stick – and he turns to look.  
“Oh, Dwight? Sure. We have a saying here; 'you earn what you take.'” He says as he leads me through the room and outside into a spacious courtyard.   
“What about the people in the factory?” I ask as I follow him through what appears to be a small food market, stalls propped up against the dark grey outer walls of the Sanctuary. Jars of pickled vegetables, fruit stands, a man butchering cuts of meat and rolling them in white paper to give to a man in a dark coat who's pushed to the front of the line.   
I watch him darkly, frowning as we pass.  
“I'd appreciate it if you took the liberty of cutting out the bone – to prevent the circumnavigations required late in order to prevent Negan choking.” He pushes his hands deep into the pockets of the soft, navy fabric of his coat and puffs out his chest. “If you could do so with a little less trepidation and a little more haste that would also be much appreciated. In layman's terms, and also the words of one of my heroes; 'a little less conversation, a little more action.'”  
The man holding the venison leg bites his bottom lip as if quelling the urge to retort. The other man clears his throat and holds a walky-talky to his mouth as he says,   
“This is Doctor Eugene Porter, recently appointed Head Engineer at this facility. On behalf of Negan, I'd like to announce that any calls today, whether it be this morning or afternoon, be redirected to myself as Negan will be publicly speaking at 10.00 am and furthermore will be indisposed.” His southern drawl rolls fast off the tongue, and I find myself twitching with anger as he tells the butcher to “Conclude packaging the produce, stat – and by stat, I mean 'quickly.'”  
“That's Eugene. New guy, works as the chief engineer.” Simon says as we pass, and I lean frustratedly against one of the struts holding up a food stall.  
“Yeah, I heard.” I squint up at Simon through the sun. “He looks like a massive asshole.”  
“He's tolerable.” Simon shrugs.   
He encourages me to take whatever I want from the food stalls and I begrudgingly accept an armful of fruit and bread, and several baking ingredients that Simon says he needs, before heading into the kitchen behind the mess hall. Steam rises from deep-panned silver trays, about as long as my arm, bearing porridge oats, scrambled eggs and roasted meat. He tells me that the workers exchange their points for meals like these, but his people – the Saviors – are fed for free.  
“Doesn't seem fair to me.” I say as he sidles his way to a set of gas-powered stoves tended by a squat, mousy-haired woman. His hand finds her shoulder and squeezes it warmly, and she jumps.  
“Fucking shit!” She exclaims, nearly dropping a hot frying pan sizzling with oil.   
“Language, Dahlia!” Simon grins, and she punches him in the ribs.   
“Stupid boy. You nearly made me soil myself. Have you heard of knocking on the door before you come in? I should tell Negan-” Her blue eyes narrow and flash with sparks of wit.   
“And say what?” He chuckles.   
“Well, I could tell him that-” She looks prepared to dish out some barbed insults, but then she glances and notices me lingering behind him. “Oh, who's this?” She places down the frying pan and pats her hands on her apron. “Simon, I didn't know you had a lady friend-”  
“I – no, it's not like that!” Simon interjects, rubbing a hand over his moustache and diverting his gaze to the floor. Dahlia takes both my hands and squeezes them, and something about the gesture makes my stomach leap. Her hands are both papery and soft, the kind of velvety softness of puppy's ears. It reminds me of my grandmother's house, the cottage with the plastic rose trellis and the lavender scent of her hand cream. The way she'd fall asleep in the armchair by the conservatory on a Sunday evening and I'd read her books, trying to flip the pages without waking her.   
“Are you sure?” Dahlia says. “Actually, you're right. Too pretty and young for you – there's no chance.”  
Simon's eyebrows raise and he regards Dahlia with a cocktail of shock and hurt. Unsure how to respond, I bite back laughter.  
“Dahlia is the woman responsible for that cardamom gelato I mentioned.” And punching a hole in his ego, too, it would appear by his slightly affronted expression.   
“That's me.” Dahlia winks, and I realise it's been a long time since I've met such a kindly woman.  
“I'm Sav.” I say as she drops my hands and swills the oil in the pan.  
“Nice to see a new face around here – especially one without a neck tattoo. I don't know where in God's name Negan has been picking up his newest recruits from, but they all look like washed-up hillbilly trash that someone peeled off the side of the motorway.” She sighs as I exchange a glance with Simon, struggling to quell my satisfied grin. “Are those for me?” She points at the goods clutched in my arms.  
“Thought you could use some more ingredients.” Simon leans on the counter, dropping onto his elbows. I watch the way his body relaxes around her, hands dropping from his belt buckles to rest his fingers on the counter. Dahlia must be a good twenty years older than him, a wizened woman with experienced hands and eyes creased by years of raucous laughter. I realise I want to grow old enough to look like her. Simon's shoulders round as he stoops to her height, and he reminds me of a child helping his mother in the kitchen.  
Dahlia takes the ingredients from me and insists on making pancakes. Simon watches her and we talk very little as she works, but I study his dark eyes, wondering why in the world someone so interesting was living in a place like this. I recall Negan's predatory, pupil-blown gaze with a shudder. And again I find myself envisioning the blood stains on Simon's clothes in the washing basket.   
“Don't get too used to it. She likes to flatter people, especially newcomers.” I jump as I see Simon leaning close to my ear, voice scarcely a whisper. His hot breath tickles the sensitive skin of my neck. I feel his muscle-bound arm brush against my back as he leans against the counter.   
“You're just jealous she didn't call you pretty.” I murmur, noticing how close his cheek is to mine. He grins, and the sound of his laughter grumbles through my chest with the resonance of a bass guitar. Dahlia casts a furtive glance in our direction and smiles to herself, shaking her head as she pours the batter into the pan. 

Following breakfast, I nervously gulp an antibiotic as Simon and I join the crowds beginning to swell in the factory floor. A loose circle of workers and Saviors alike, intermingling around the open mouth of the furnace. The fire throws its light over the sallow faces of the people surrounding us, and through the throngs of people in their dust-filmed clothes, I catch a glimpse of the women in the black dresses. Their glossy hair and painted faces, which I realise look almost ridiculous now after not wearing makeup in such a long time. Their skin looks too dewy, their lips wet as if with tears. Amber bows her head and looks oddly gaunt and doll-like, the firelight making her hair luminescent in the dust-darkened room. The rest of Negan's wives stand with a similar posture, heads dipped like swans, eyes trained doggedly to the floor.   
As I watch them, enraptured and repulsed, I hear his footfalls before I see him. A hearty chuckle echoes throughout the room, and I feel my skin prickle as he enters from a door beside the furnace. Behind him trails Doctor Carson, and the blonde man I glimpsed earlier. Except, in the warm glow of the fire, I can now see past his straw-yellow hair. Dragging down the corner of his eye and twisting his flesh into a pinkish snarl is scar tissue.  
“What's wrong with his face?” I hiss, leaning up on my toes to get a better view and also reach Simon's ear. He tilts his head towards me to hear.   
“Uh...” His expression is taught and unsure, eyes darting between Negan and the Doctor and – what was his name – Dwight? “It was punishment.” He says resignedly, jaw twitching, as if he didn't want to say so. I keep my gaze trained on Simon, and grip his wrist. Hard.  
“What kind of place is this? Tell me. Now.”   
His gaze burns into mine and he inhales through his nose.   
“Watch.”  
“No, you tell me-”  
“Savannah, please be quiet.” He hisses, desperation mounting. I bite my tongue and return to watching the figures by the furnace.   
Negan stops and stands before the crowd, which slowly sinks onto its knees. My breathing is hard and ragged, fists clenched at my side, hands still curled around Simon's wrist. As the people around us stoop onto their knees, I see Negan's black eyes flicker to where I grip his right hand man. “Welcome.” He booms, cold gaze gripping me like a vice. I stand a little closer to Simon. “Rise.” He lifts a gloved hand and the workers scuffle back onto their feet. I continue to glower his way. “Now, I was hoping that I'd be able to deliver some good fucking news today – but, sadly, that isn't the case... No.” Rakes his leather-gloved fingers through his silver beard and sighs deeply. I can't tell if he's watching me or Simon through the reflection of the yawning fire captured in his eyes. “As you all are aware, I've lost something very dear to me. A super hot girl – and why? Because she ran away.” He dips his hand into the pocket of his pants and withdraws a folded-up note and holds it several inches from Doctor Carson's face. “How did she do that, you might be wondering? You see, I was thinking the exact same thing only the other night when Dwight came to visit me.” Negan is almost toe to toe with the Doctor, who trembles like a lamb before him. “Usually I wouldn't open my door to Dwighty-boy after hours – not when I could be screwing one of my wives, hell, maybe even two of 'em – but he gave me a compelling piece of evidence. You see, someone opened the door and let my fucking puppy out.”  
Doctor Carson's face blanches, and his eyes brim with tears. “I – I didn't write that!” He points to the offending note. Negan waits for the man to cease bleating before continuing, undeterred.  
“And yet, this was found in your desk. In your handwriting. You see what it says, here? 'Goodbye, Honey.'” He spits the words as if they were made of bile. “You let her out, didn't you?”  
“No! No, I promise-”  
“If not you, then who?” He barks, and I find myself slowly releasing Simon's wrist from my grip. “You think Dwight would lie to me? Hell, what does he have to lose? If he lied to me, I'd burn the other side of his fucking face until he died. He knows that.” He laughs darkly. “But you? You let her out, perhaps in the hopes that she would love your greedy, self-righteous, cowardly, tiny fucking prick!” The words rebound off the walls, growing in their ugliness. I shake my head.  
“This is wrong.” I hiss, taking a step back.   
Simon turns to look at me, frowning.  
“I know it's hard, but just wait until it's over.” He whispers, seizing my hand, and the contact makes me gasp as if burnt.  
“You should've told me.” I utter through gritted teeth as Negan's tirade magnifies in volume around us.  
“What should I do, huh? Should I burn your face, too?” Negan snarls, nose to nose with Carson, who withers under his glare. Burn his... I see Dwight's scarred face, the way he watches the ground, eyes cold and placid and empty. The Doctor's gaze flits through the crowd, searching for a friendly face, and then his pale eyes meet mine. And a shard of guilt twists through my chest like glass. He mouths something as Negan's hands coil in the collar of his shirt. Help.   
I snatch my hand away from Simon's and push the workers in front of me to the side, feeling him grope for my shoulders to pull me back, but I've already stepped out from the ring of onlookers into the firelight. It sears my skin, and adrenaline makes my body feel alight. I grab Negan's jacket and jerk him backwards, away from Carson. He loses his balance, turning to gawk at me.   
“What the shit?”  
I plant my hands on his chest and shove him, taking Carson's place before him. I feel the tangible heat coming from the tall man, the dark hair unkempt and the eyes rabid.   
“You don't touch him.” I say, and there's something about the danger in my voice that reminds me of a place. A feeling. Wet forest turf underfoot, rain pummelling the roof of a lodge. Rain and sweat coagulating and rolling down my neck. A hot gun in my palm and the fantasy of Raoul's skull imploding with gore. I won't let anyone else be hurt. Not like before.  
“What did you just say to me?” Negan looms closer, and I tilt my head to stare up at him.  
“You don't touch him.” A snarl.  
His smirk tilts into a grin, and he chuckles. I realise that a gripped silence has fallen in the room. “Simon, you should learn to control your girl!” He announces, and my pulse races. “She might just take your place one day if she carries on like this... shit, just look at you.” He sighs breathily, face inches from my hair. “What a badass.” His eyes sear into me, as if getting drunk off my rage.   
“Don't touch him.” I find myself unable to say anything else, shaking my head. “Don't.”  
“Simon, restrain her. Now.” The fire in his eyes turns icy and I see Simon step through the crowd, reluctancy torturing his features.   
“Just stop this, Savannah.” He looks to Negan as if searching for an alternative.   
“She's your pet project, Simon. Make her stand down before I have to.”   
“Negan-”  
“Do it!” He bellow, eyes still fixated on mine. I see my own reflection in the tawny orbs, firelight bleaching my hair and face so I look white and searing, miniaturised in his blown pupils.   
Simon moves through the crowd towards me, and suddenly the realisation of what is about to happen dawns on me – I imagine Simon grabbing me, holding my throat, pressing until my face turns blue. Who is he? Why did he bring me here?  
I lunge for Negan and land a hard slap across his face, grappling with the leather jacket collar, looking for purchase to throw a proper punch. But I'm seized from behind and dragged away, Simon's moustache grazing my cheek, arms taught and hard and inescapable around my middle. It's as if someone lights a fuse within me and I spasmodically lash out, nails clawing into Simon's arms.  
“Let me go!”   
“Savannah-” He grunts in my ear, breathing heavy, too tall and too big and encompassing the entirety of my senses. I feel as if I'm going to be consumed. I see him again as if he stands before me – Raoul's moss-wet eyes, the groping clammy hands reaching out for me through the dark. He and Simon blur together and I'm shaking, I'm gasping for breath.  
“Don't – hold – me-” The room is fringed with black, and I blink, struggling to clear my vision but only slipping further into darkness.   
“What the ever-loving fuck is she doing?” A distant voice.  
“She's hyperventilating.”   
“Simon, sit her down-”  
And then only blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about anyone else, but I love writing revenge stories. I love writing people who are looking for an end to something awful that has happened to them. I think what Savannah wants more than revenge is closure, but she doesn't realise it. In a way, I like writing someone who is unaware of what they actually need.
> 
> Anyhow, please let me know what cha think. Constructive crit welcome as always!


	5. i wish it was me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She remembers.

I rush out from the lodge, crashing onto the muddy riverbank without my shoes on, hair bedraggled and snarled from sleep. The morning-light makes my eyes ache, and I squint as I stumble out towards the river. Its silver surface slitting the forest open like a knife. Clear water chortling over smooth rocks. The red light of the dawn like egg yolk as it seeps between the cool pine trees, silhouetted against the sky.   
A jackdaw cries somewhere, and I lift my gaze, finally accustomed to the light.   
“Where... what the fuck – where is everyone?” I realise with a twinge of humiliation and fear that I'm stood by the riverbank wearing cotton pyjama shorts and a Sex Pistols t-shirt, with my toes curled into the soft grey mud. “Morgan!” My cry echoes across the river.   
A flurry of birds labour into the air downstream, singing their panic.   
I turn and squelch back to the lodge, shoving my feet – mud and all – hurriedly into steel-capped boots and fastening my knife holster over my t-shirt. My nipple pebble in the coarse wind, and I hiss against the chill as I slam the lodge door shut behind me. My heart races all the while, and I race over the river.  
Water sloshes around my feet, and I race into the woods, headless of any of the dead that may be shuffling through the morning mist.  
“Morgan! This isn't funny - you get that, right?” The trees surrounding me are empty, but I still grip my favourite knife in my hand, poised. It's the one with the serrated edge that Morgan said reminded her of a piranha's mouth, and since then I've referred to it unerringly as that. 'Morgan, can you get me Piranha Mouth from the table?' My breath becomes visible, pale coils puffed out into the air. “I'll ground you! I'll ground you, you little brat! That means no more vegemite, and I won't clean your socks anymore for two whole weeks. You hear me?”   
I wait for several moments. The silence that has fallen around the trees is deafening, and my pulse has begun to hammer in my ears. I continue thrashing through the undergrowth, slashing ferns, gaze flitting anxiously from this tree to that rock, expecting her to emerge from behind it. To come out and call me an idiot for falling for such a dumb prank.   
“Morgan...” My throat feels coiled tight, the air in my lungs plunging into me like shards of ice. The blood rushes to my head and I kneel over and vomit onto the forest floor, stomach bile and minnow coughed up onto the ground. I sit retching for several minutes, stomach convulsing, gripped by the fist of panic. This always used to happen when I was a kid. My mother always used to say I was sensitive – the kind of person who had physical, visceral reactions to any emotion.  
She realised this first when I watched a nature documentary at seven years old and a little fish was stranded beside a riverbed. It convulsed on the shore with its big eyes bugging in terror, gasping for breath, and though I don't remember doing it, my mother assures me I burst into tears before running from the room. She told me I slipped on the rug in the hallway and fell over, and split my lip open. The only way I know she was telling the truth is the fact that I still have a scar from it.  
I told Morgan this story only a month ago and she laughed. I did too.   
But now when I recall the memory I just feel nauseous.   
“Morgan!” The scream doesn't even sound like mine. If she were joking, she would have come out of hiding the moment I vomited and apologised. Held my hair back even though it's so short there would be no real need. Feel guilty all day and offer to make dinner as an apology, even though she can't even turn on a gas stove.  
I make myself walk, then I make myself run. I search for Jared, for Gethin and Kelly and the rest of the group, but see no one. Then my breath catches in my throat as I remember that today the whole group, excluding myself, Morgan and Raoul, were set to leave on a run to the closest town. We had run out of thyroid tablets for Kelly's older sister, and they were determined to raid the area in search of them. My stomach flips as I remember the way Raoul nodded vehemently around the fire several nights back, insisting that they should go. Whereas Morgan and I exchanged worried glances. Because there was something about Raoul that made her nervous, and although I didn't see it, I believed her. She said there was something nervous about his eyes when he looked at her. As if he'd done something horrible and was afraid that everyone else would find out.  
“Raoul.” The word feels like a stone on my tongue. I say his name, then I scream it at the top of my lungs.   
And he answers.  
“You've caught me.”   
Shivers race down my spine and I wheel around, searching for evidence of the man, my knuckles turned ivory around the hilt of Piranha Mouth. He laughs, and the sound echoes through the forest. Even the birds in the trees hold their breath, and then I see him. So far in the distance that I can only see the pale outline of his body looming through the fog. The slumped shoulders and narrow skull. Something dark on the ground twitches, and my heart is in my mouth.  
“Where is she?” The words fall, broken, from my mouth. I realise I'm already crying. “What have you done?”  
I clutch the knife and advance, but he holds out a hand.  
“Don't come any closer, Savannah. If you do that, I'll have to kill her.” And he withdraws his own knife. I watch the dark shape on the ground and feel my heart lurch as I see Morgan, her black hair tangled around her face, her mouth parted as if in sleep.   
“If you do anything to her, I'll – I'll-”  
“It's already over.” He smiles, waves his hand dismissively.   
“What is? What've you-”  
“That's the thing with women like you nowadays. You think you're so invincible. Shit, I mean, look at you – running around a big forest in your little shorts. Carrying a knife, playing dress-up as a survivor.” He laughs, and the sound is hollow. “A bad man could do anything to you out here.”  
The words have been robbed from my mouth. My eyes dart between his crumpled pants, his obvious evidence of arousal, and her sleeping body.  
“I'll fucking kill you.” The blood begins to surge through me. My hands twitch. I nearly drop the knife from my shaking fingers. “If you touch her, I'll destroy you.”   
“She was asleep. She didn't even feel it.” He says calmly, and the words send me reeling. I burst through the undergrowth towards him, and he stoops quickly to pick up her sleeping body. Her head lulls back against his stomach, legs bowed, and I see how her belt and zipper are undone. Muddy handprints all over her jeans, her stomach, her front. Raoul is fully hard, green eyes bugging and frenetic. I shudder and pace like a caged animal as he ghosts the knife over her skin.  
“No – don't hurt her, please-”  
He keeps the knife close to her eyes, and the tears drip from my chin. My breathing begins to falter, and I can feel a panic attack coming. Shit. Shit.   
“Aren't you grateful it wasn't you?” He says. “You see, I was planning on having you instead – I put the powder in your cup last night, but she drunk it instead. I won't complain.”   
“Just put her down, we can talk about this-” Black begins to speckle my vision, and I fight to keep breathing. I have to. For her. I can't leave her like this.   
“Drop your knife.” He orders, and I let it fall to the ground. “Good girl.”  
The words make my lip curl into a snarl, and I watch as he leans down and presses a kiss to Morgan's forehead. I'm agitating with revulsion, mouth agape, trying to hold back sobs. I've failed her. I should've been there. I can't-  
“Thank you for this, Savannah. Seriously.” He places Morgan back on the ground. “I needed it.” Then he turns and walks away, into the mist. And I watch him leave. Frozen.   
It feels like an hour before I'm able to move from where I shake, crouched on the floor, the tears rolling down my nose and pattering onto my bare legs.   
“Move. Move. You have to move.” I mutter to myself, forcing my body into action. I crawl through the mud until I reach her sleeping body, and drag her into my lap with hands gone numb. My tears fall into her black hair, and I push it off her forehead. Her dark skin speckled with mud, her face horribly peaceful. I fight for control of my breathing and fail, heaving and sobbing over her. I force myself to zip up her jeans and buckle her belt, and grip her hand in mine. I feel her pulse, and almost choke on the relief. She's alive. And she's lying in my lap like a marionette with the strings all severed, limp and unaware and damaged.  
“I'm sorry. I'm so – sorry – it's my fault-” I feel my stomach swell with guilt. Hatred. Rage. “It should've been me.” I stare into the fog as it begins to lift from the trees, staring fixedly at the spot where Raoul stood. “I wish it was me.” 

 

My tongue is stuck behind my wooly teeth, sandpaper dry. My entire body bears a dull, throbbing ache, and my neck is twisted where my head leans against the cool ground. I feel panic begin to ebb inside me, and for a fleeting moment I numbly wonder if I'm outside. I slowly open my heavy-lidded eyes, and am confronted only by dense, velvety blackness. Like the soft underbelly of a bear, inescapable and all-consuming. A sliver of light splits the dark like a blade of grey, and I twitch my fingers. Experimenting with movement. Mouth open, saliva trailing over my chin. From beyond the door, the muffled echoes of footfalls and conversation. It passes over me as if I were underwater, the lip of the ocean foaming and rocking above me, crisp and clear and icy blue.   
“Mom.” I croak, and the word echoes hollowly in the cell. I war with myself, simultaneously trying to remember how I got here, but also wary enough to press the memory far away from me. Better to not remember some things. “I messed up. I lost her.”   
And then it happens – the inevitable – and I curl onto my side and start crying. The concrete feels like a relief underneath me, firm and unyielding and anchoring me to the earth. Blinking, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, I spot a pillow and a flask against the brick wall. And then the sensation of his arms around my middle brings me back with a devastating crash to the present moment, of the events preceding this. Negan threatening the Doctor. Simon grabbing me. Voices raised, and my head rolling back to stare at the dust particles rising like tiny angels to the high ceiling. The sensation of being sucked down a long, soft black chute. The respite from thought and emotion that was almost pleasant.   
My chest aches with bitten-back sobs, and I gingerly force myself onto my knees and crawl to the pillow.   
“Mom, I fucked it all up.” She's not here. She's god-knows-where, but within the metre-by-metre room I'm certain no one can hear me speak. And since what happened by the fishing lodge, I've refused to divulge. “There was a girl, and she was counting on me. And – and I couldn't help. And it was so wrong and so ugly and I...” My face finds the pillow and I murmur into it, fingers curling into the fabric. Crushing it. Tears bristling into rage. “...I couldn't do anything. It was like time stopped. After what happened with dad, I thought we'd had our share of bad luck. It thought it was over, you know? But-”   
I glimpse shadows fracturing the thread of light underneath the door, and I freeze. Lifting my head from the pillow, I prop myself up and scramble to the corner of the cell, pressing my back into the wall. The door opens with a creak, and I throw an arm over my eyes as light engulfs the space. Throws itself off the dank walls thinly coated with grime. My eyes blister with it, and I duck my face into the collar of my shirt, hiding.   
“Have you cooled off now, doll?” A voice says, and I refuse to remove my face from my shirt. My pulse races, and through the cotton I can see Negan's silhouette fill the doorway. “Doll.” He sighs, as if exhausted. I hear the door creak half-shut behind him, and I slowly lift my gaze from my collar. He leans against the door-frame, looking down the bridge of his nose at me with a look of fatigue and pity.   
The rage I felt has subsided into a simmering discomfort. I draw my feet closer into myself and huddle tighter against the wall as he watches me.  
“You look shitty.” He says, kneeling down close to me. He pushes the door shut a little more, noticing how my gaze flickers between his face and the scarce few inches leading out into the Sanctuary that could lead to an escape. “Christ, you have a good left hook on you. If Simon hadn't been there, I bet you'd have given me one hell of a black eye. Woulda swollen up like a big fucking testicle, and the ladies wouldn't be a fan of that.” He cocks his head, studies me as I swallow my emotion and stare through tear-brimming eyes at the crack in the door. He frowns. “Are you crying?”  
“No.” I grunt through set teeth. But one tears rolls traitorously down my cheek and I hiss, swiping it away with the heel of my hand.   
“You are.” He says as he grimaces, and I glance up to meet his gaze. He looks doleful, strangely vulnerable without the leather jacket. I realise that for all the poisonous black in his eyes, they look pained. “Look, I'm sorry you had to see that – it's ugly. I know.” Looks down at his feet, tapping Lucille against the flagstone floor of the cell. Those contemplative, strange eyes watching where her barbs graze the ground. “But it's over now.”  
“He's dead?” The words seize in my throat, and I don't know why it affects me so much. As if thinking the same thing, Negan stares at me questioningly.   
“He broke the rules – when someone breaks the rules, folks have to die. It's the way things function now. The world is ugly, Savannah, it always has been.”  
“I know.”   
“Then you also know that sometimes we have to do things we don't want to in order to maintain order.” He props his chin on Lucille's handle, and his smile looks more like a forced grimaced. He looks tired. Perhaps it's the remaining haze of my unconsciousness, but I find it hard to place together the image of the man kneeling in front of me and the one I saw in the Doctor's surgery only a day before.   
“You're still a monster.” I whisper, inching away towards the wall. This time he laughs, the sound hearty enough to fill the cell with its echoes. His white teeth flash in the darkness and I feel the smell of him – chewing tobacco and cologne and gritty chalk from the compound – envelope me with an intensity that makes me shudder. My eyes stay fixated to his like a diver in a shark tank.   
“Well, we all do monstrous things. Whether we intend to or not.” He says, rising to his feet. He extends a leather-gloved hand, and I stare at it obliquely. He waggles his fingers and his tongue darts out between his teeth again. “C'mon.”  
“What are you going to do to me?” I say drolly, before I realise my poor choice of words.   
“I'm going to show you your new room.” He says. “I'm one man down, and there's a bedroom going spare. Unless you want to share with your old pal Simon again?”   
The name sends shivers scuttling down my spine, and I petulantly turn my face away from Negan's hand.   
“I'm leaving.” I spit. “I'm not staying here – I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time.” I rise to my feet unaided, and he slowly retracts his hand, jaw set. Stepping past him, I move into the corridor, but he places a hand firmly on my shoulder, leaning into my ear.  
“Deal still stands.” He utters, deathly soft.   
“You said you would keep me here until Carson died, if you wanted to. Now he's dead. So let me go.” Rage begins to swell under my skin in a great wave, and Negan's grin is sharp with malice.   
“It was a turn of phrase, sweetheart.” His eyes strip me bare and I clench my fists by my sides. “Go to your room. You've been bad, so I'm grounding you.” He beams, relishing this.  
“You can't-”  
“Fat Joey, take this disobedient young lady to her room and see that she stays there!” He snaps his fingers in the direction of a man who is halfway through a breakfast sandwich.  
“Now?” Through a mouthful of sausage and scrambled egg.  
“Yes – now.”   
“Yes, sir!” With that he finishes the sandwich and pats his hands down on his pants before frog-marching me through the corridor. I cast a scathing glance over my shoulder at Negan, who leans against the door-frame with amusement glittering in his eyes. 

 

“Does he really call you 'Fat Joey?'” I ask as I stand in the centre of the bedroom, arms folded, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot and searching for some way to fracture the tense silence. Joey shrugs his shoulders, fingers intertwined in front of him as he lingers in the doorway. He seems as if he's trying to avoid my gaze. “Hey, uhm. Thanks for showing me the room, by the way. It's nice.”  
Which is true. On some stacked wood pellets is a thick king-sized mattress with pale blue covers, and a selection of throw cushions clustered around the headboard. Ocean colours – sea foam greens and duck egg blues, cream, deep pine-brown. The dust-filmed windows are left on the latch and the warm summer air brings in the scent of fresh bread, so I reason we must be close to the kitchens. Sunlight casts oblongs of gold across a distressed wooden floor. There's a small cream wardrobe beside the bed, in addition to a bedside table with a reading lamp which looks to be constructed from fragments of broken bottles – it's strangely beautiful, a patchwork of deep green and amber. Beer bottles and windows smashed and reformed, fixed together and winking in the sunlight. As in Simon's bedroom, on the far side of the room in a small kitchenette – smaller than his, of course – with a mini fridge and cupboards stacked to the ceiling. Small stove. Microwave. And on the far end on the room, underneath the windows, is a tortoiseshell 90's record player and a collection of vinyl in beaten-up old sleeves. A weathered leather armchair is partially illuminated by squares of sunlight that make it look amber and chestnut.   
I shake my head silently, ruminating. I'd be happy here. More than happy. If only I could pick up this room and move it somewhere in the middle of a forest, completely isolated. Somewhere I could sharpen my knives in the morning and find that old fishing lodge.   
“It – well – it just sort of stuck. Negan called me it when I first came here.” Joey says, and I lift my gaze from the floor. His cheeks are pink. I cock my head and wonder if they always look that way.   
“Don't you think it's, like... a really jerky thing to do?” I ask tentatively. Joey laughs, awkward.  
“It's only the truth, right?”  
“No, not really.” I shrug. “And if we're going to call people what they really are, why isn't he called 'Sex Pest Negan?'”   
Joey's eyes widen, and he glances out into the corridor furtively.   
“You shouldn't say that.” He hisses, biting back a smile.  
“But it's only the truth, right? And if it's okay for him to say that about you, why can't I call him a gross pest?”   
“Seriously, don't-” But he's chuckling under his breath.   
But it's too late, because I step forward into the corridor and raise my voice to bellow “Negan is a sex pest!”   
“Shh!” Joey shoves me back into the room, and I stop trying to fight the grin spreading across my face. Only my smile falters as a figure appears in the doorway.   
Simon's eyes are wide, glancing between Joey and I, obviously having heard my announcement. I feel as if all the air has been kicked out of me, and I struggle for breath. His eyes meet mine and after several moments Joey says, “Uh, I'm really sorry. I'll go.”   
I hear him hurry away into the corridor and Simon and I stand before each other. My heart begins to beat rabbit-fast, and he lingers in the doorway, hands in his pockets, posture tense.   
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” He asks.  
“Sure.” I croak, backing up against the kitchen counter as he shuts the door softly behind him. The silence falls upon us like the dust and sediment on the factory workers below, only the sound of the crickets and laughter from the compound outside punctuating the quietude. He looks around the room, as if trying to avoid my gaze.  
“This is nice.” He says.   
“Yeah.” A pause for a beat or two, before I feel my anxiety begin to win against my fear. “I don't want it, though.”   
“You don't?” He's looking at the toaster behind me. Hand finds his moustache and he rakes his fingers through it.   
“No.” I inhale slowly and make myself look at him. His shoulders are slumped again, like in the kitchen with Dahlia. He looks younger, smaller, when he does that. “I want to leave.”  
“I understand.” He says slowly.   
“You do?”  
“I'm only here to send you a message from Negan. He wants you to join him for dinner this evening, eight o'clock.”  
“Fuck that.” I spit, losing my cool, nose crinkling. “No. No, I'm not going to do that.”   
An echo of a sad smile dances around Simon's mouth, and he meets my gaze.  
“It's an order, not a question.”   
“He can't make me. You can't make me, either.”  
“You have to, Savannah. That's just the way things work around here – you broke a rule, so you have to pay for it in whatever way he sees fit.”  
The rage begins to bubble over, and I open my mouth to retort, but he cuts across me.   
“I did what I thought was the right thing, okay? I saw you and I couldn't leave you-”  
“You should have.”   
“How was I meant to know it would turn into all – all of this?” He gestures, exasperated.   
“You should have told me what this place was the moment we came here!” We. I hang my head, embarrassed at how the word slipped out, curling my hands underneath the kitchen counter and gritting my teeth. In my peripheral, I see him take a step closer. “The moment you brought me here.”  
“I wanted to help-”  
“If you want to help, then you'll help me leave!” I always sound like my mother when I raise my voice. Desperate, irate. It frustrates me. He approaches, and I nearly dart out of the way. I side-step him, but he seems intent to hold me.   
“Why? Why do you need to leave? Have you seen the way things are out there? Struggling every day just to survive, just to make sure you have enough food to eat, shelter at night, a gun in your hand.”  
“I know – I've lived it, stop talking to me as if I don't know how it feels.” I stumble over the words. “But I'm not staying here, I have things I need to do – I have someone I have to find.”   
“You're sick, it can wait.” His hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch away. I've backed myself up against the armchair and I stumble, almost falling, but he seizes me by the waist. The breath catches in my throat and I swallow, trying to quell the anxiety in me.  
“I'm not going to hurt you. Okay? I'm not-” His voice is so soft, and I coil my hands into the front of his shirt, searching for purchase. My legs feel weak. His left side is completely lit up by the sun, the dark brown eyes laced with strands of chestnut and amber. I can see past the smile lines and the way his eyes crease in the corners. I can picture exactly how he must have looked as a young man.   
“It scared me earlier.” My fists twitch where they grip his shirt. “When you grabbed me, I thought you were him. The man who... you know I mentioned the little girl I was with?”  
“I remember.” He says, gently drawing back, removing his hands from my sides.   
“I panicked. I couldn't breathe. I sometimes forget where I am and I feel as if I'm still trapped back there, in that forest, on that morning when it all happened.” I'm staring at my own hands buried in his cotton shirt. Tears well behind my eyes and I furiously blink them back. “I'm so angry, all the time.”  
“I know how that feels.” He says quietly, eyes watching my mouth as I talk.   
“He needs to die. I need to find him, and he needs to die. That can't happen while I'm here.” I shakily make myself release his shirt, and I sit down heavily in the armchair. I feel Simon watching, me, and bury my face in my fingers, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands.   
“Listen, I know the way that things are here. I'm not blind to it – I know you think I am, but I'm not. Okay?” I lift my gaze and see him watching me. Kneeling by the chair. He gives a huff as he seats himself on the floor beside me. “I can't just let you go, kiddo.”  
“I-”  
“Listen to me. C'mon, help me out here.” He pauses, sighs. “We can be useful to you. You think you can honestly track this guy down with no man-power, no resources, no weapons? Well, we have all of those at our disposal. We have eyes everywhere.”  
“Simon-”  
“I'm not saying we're not shitty.” His nose crinkles in distaste, and he laughs. “Because we are. But we're – we're chaotic neutral, okay? You ever played Dungeons and Dragons?”  
“No.” I scoff.   
“Chaotic neutrals means-”  
“I know what it means. Geez.”   
He grins, and I feel my heart begin to calm. The sun illuminates his hair, and I realise how soft to the touch it looks. I lean back in the armchair, almost swallowed by the ageing leather, and he casts me a shy glance.  
“I'm sorry for grabbing you. I won't do it again, no matter what the Boss Man says.” He leans on the armchair, and I can see a myriad of long red scratches running up his forearms. Several of them are still beading tiny droplets of claret.   
“Oh.” I exhale softly. “Sorry.”  
“Don't be.” He shrugs. “I remember when I was a kid we had a kitten, and it used to tear my arms up worse than this.”  
“Maybe it thought you were a scratching post. You're very tall.”   
“Am I your scratching post now?”  
“When you act like a prick, maybe.”   
He chuckles, casting his eyes down at his arms. He interlaces his fingers and stands up with a huff. Thumbs in belt loops as usual, yanking up his pants.   
“I don't want to have dinner with that rampantly polygamous jerk.”   
“That rampantly polygamous jerk has a big weapons cache.” He pauses, chewing on his plush bottom lip. “I really shouldn't be telling you this, but... he's taken quite a shine to you.” His eyes fall to the floorboards, and his shoulders tense.  
“I'm not interested.” I say earnestly, praying for him to look up at me. I don't want this to drive a wedge between Simon and I – not when his help could prove vital to me. “And it didn't look that way to me – he threatened to throw me out. Honestly, I wish he did.”  
“He's temperamental.” He says, and I raise my eyebrows. That's one way of putting it. “But when there's something – or someone – he wants, he loses sight of anything else. Even just for a moment, he can't see anything but the potential conquest. It makes being his right hand man a hard job, but I think you can use it to your advantage. With a some persuasion, I've got no doubt he'll give you the resources you need to find this guy. And kill him.”  
This time he meets my gaze, and I can see the same cold fire burning behind them that I feel every time I remember that morning in the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this one, even though it was gut-wrenchingly horrible. It was somehow cathartic - is that weird? I don't know.   
> I found it a challenge, to try and convey panic and horror and so many raw emotions that don't always lend themselves well to prose - no matter how I write a scene with very high tension, I always feel like it comes off either inaccurate or rehearsed. I guess some emotions transcend words.
> 
> Anyhow, please let me know what you think! Constructive crit is welcome, as always. And please let me know if I have any typos in these chapters - I always edit when I post to tumblr, but on AO3 I've been posting my raw draft from my laptop with little proofreading. I know that's pretty unprofessional lol sorry


	6. peach iced tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has dinner with him.

“Amber, do any of you have dresses that aren't black?” I turn away from the walk-in closet, my mouth agape. “How many times do you wear the same colour in a week?”  
Amber sighs and leans against the wall. “I don't know, every day?”  
“How do you not kill him?”  
“It's such an exhausting idea.” She says, with a hint of a smile. “Easier to just lay there until it's over. I mean, it's not like it's unenjoyable.”  
“But it's like hard work?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I don't like guys that are hard work.” I say, and she comes to stand beside me, opening a drawer in the dresser sat in the corner of the room. There's an assortment of cosmetics – various brands, mostly high-street products but several high-end bottles protruding from the disorganised clutter. I come to take a seat on a black velvet seat – with gold accents, of course, as seemed the palette of the wives' apartment – and prop my elbows on the vintage dresser. Painted cream, the paint flaking in places. Three oval mirrors fringed with dark spots where the silver has been worn away throw our reflections back at us – Amber with her long blonde hair, waifish stature and large eyes, me with my short fair hair and fierce little features. When I was young, the boys in my class used to tease me about my eyes being far apart and how in the summer I always came out in flourishes of freckles. I never tanned, only burned, but freckles appeared all over my skin.  
“It's weird to, you know... have a mirror for once.” I say, frowning. I haven't seen my reflection in such clarity in at least several months, and I lean forward and examine how the Georgia sun has brought out fine lines under my eyes.  
“I know. I remember when I came here, I'd forgotten what I even looked like.” Amber says, sitting on the floor and pooling several bottles of foundation into her lap. “I looked into a mirror and saw a stranger – I thought, who the hell is this person?” A pause. “Honestly, I still do. Every morning.” My chest tightens in empathy, and she tilts my chin up towards the light coming through the window and swatches some of the foundations on my skin.  
“Do you do this often?” I giggle, feeling shy to have someone study my face in such detail.  
“It's boring as fuck here – I've gotten very into make-up.” She grins, and I realise her front teeth are a fraction crooked. I feel somehow closer to her after finding human fault in her otherwise angelic face. “I studied it in college before, actually – but I didn't know if I wanted it as a career. Wait, I think I have some MAC somewhere-”  
“Seriously?”  
“One of the few perks of this lifestyle choice.” She says. “I wrote Negan a note one morning – in the beginning, I think, when I was pretty idealistic – that if he found any makeup with 'MAC' written on it, he had to get it.” She exchanges a glance with me. “I know what you're thinking – bratty of me, right? But I couldn't resist. I figured, if I had to live like this, I'd take everything I could get out of him. And he's always got me everything I asked for.” She searches for a moment and picks up the aforementioned bottle. “Almost everything.”

Soon she leaves me, saying she was sure she found something in a department store during the beginning of the outbreak that she squirrelled away for herself long ago, and I sit idly with my feet swinging above the carpeted floor. She helped me pick out lingerie, which I scoffed at, saying it was “Not going to be necessary, at all, ever, for as long as I lived” and she said it was for me to enjoy, not for anyone else. She brought me herbal tea and we talked as if the world had never ended. As if we were two ordinary girls meeting by chance in a coffee shop in a little suburban town – making conversation, being crass and undignified. I apply a small amount of makeup before stopping myself with a huff, angry at even agreeing to partake in this man's circus.  
Then I glance beyond the window, remembering the stoic faces of the other wives. Perhaps Amber is so friendly with me because the other women here have entirely surrendered to their fate, and she hasn't. Perhaps she misses the company of normal women not inside Negan's select circle.  
“Hey.” I hear her voice and jump, nearly tumbling off the stool.  
“Shit! I nearly died.”  
“That would've been really anti-climactic.” She snorts. “Funny, though, to die in such a mundane way.”  
“I hope that's how I go.”  
“Really?” She laughs.  
“Yeah. I hope I eat something bad and die of an upset stomach. Something normal.”  
“Beats disembowelment.” Then I turn and notice what she holds in her arms. It's a dusky pink dress, made of some kind of silk, with Oriental-influenced buttons running from hem to collar.  
“Holy shit. That's gorgeous.” I get up, and she hands it to me as if passing over some kind of gauntlet. “Are you sure?”  
“Sure I'm sure. It'll go with your hair.” She says, and I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. I want to hug her, but I'm not sure if we're there yet, so I just grin.  
“Thank you so much.” Not for the dress, but for the gesture. And most of all, for the company.  
“Anytime.” She says, looking shy. Tucking her hair behind her ear. “Anyway, you should go. It's almost eight o'clock.”  
“For the record, if he ever pisses you off and you want me to throttle him for you...” I gesticulate a little, and she laughs. A raw, genuine sound.  
“I'll hit you up, killer.”

Amber leads me to Negan's quarters, leaving me outside the door. She squeezes my arm before turning and walking away, head bowed, pale hair flowing behind her. In a moment she's gone, like a mirage, and I stand alone in the dark hallway. The sound of her heels becomes mere echoes, and I stare obliquely at the doorknob.  
“Fuck this.” I whisper. “This is screwed up – this is like Pretty Woman, but a low-budget re-make for daytime TV. I refuse to do this shit.” I look around, searching for help. Or a sign from God, who seems to be taking a back-seat lately. I raise my fist to knock, then stop and wheel around in my shoes, which decidedly are not heels. I'm wearing a pair of soft, worn black velvet flats Amber pilfered from another wife – Rickie, or something, I think. I grumble in my throat disagreeably once more before whirling around and making myself knock. Only, instead of knocking I slam my fist into the door, and my knuckles explode in agony.  
“Fuck!” I shake my hand desperately, hissing under my breath. I hear footsteps, and then the door opens. I stand there, clutching my hand and huffing like a steam train.  
“Well, hello.” The bastard grins slyly, eyes roving up and down my body. “You look beautiful.”  
For a moment, I regard him with some surprise. I had been expecting a comment regarding my vagina and his presence – or lack thereof – within it, and eye him sheepishly, as if waiting for the punch-line of a joke.  
“Are you going to come in or should I bring the party outside?” He grins, opening the door for me, smile making dimples in his cheeks.  
“Hmmph.” I say as I cross the threshold, hands coiled into tense fists by my sides. I hear him chuckle as he gently shuts the door behind me, and I regard his bedroom with further bemusement. It's lushly decorated, but not ostentatious, furnished in monochrome and metal. To my left is a large four-poster bed with black covers that I deliberately draw my gaze away from – because I could do without the visual - and on the other end of the room are two black leather couches. Entrenched in soft-looking charcoal grey cushions, with the sunset casting a warm pinkish glow over them. Between the couches is a glass coffee table accented with steel, and thick white fur rugs atop dark mahogany floorboards. On the far wall is a collection of illustrations depicting coiled vipers, drawn in ink pen, their maws open and their fangs barbed and ready. Besides these is a mounted stag head, and atop some filing cabinets are several flourishing green ferns. Lastly, propped against the windowsill is Lucille.  
“I figured we could have a drink before dinner.” He says.  
“I don't drink.” I reply, like the liar that I am. Simon's Bronx Empress was different. Special.  
“Fair's fair – I do drink, however, so give me a second.” He's wearing a tight grey t-shirt – similar to the one he gave me, and I realise that the resemblance is surely not lost on him – and his usual grey pants. He's not wearing shoes, however, and seeing him walk around in soft white socks makes me want to laugh. He moves towards a small iron bath filled with ice that I hadn't even realised was sat beside his bed – probably a move to get me closer to the bed, the git – and takes a beer. Uncorks it with his teeth in some show of manliness before indicating for me to take a seat on the couch.  
Beside or opposite? Which is less horrible? Perhaps the open window?  
Then I recall Simon's words in my head and realise that socialising with this nymphomaniac is necessary to my mental well-being, and perch myself on the very edge of the couch beside him.  
“Can I take my shoes off?” I ask suddenly. He meets my gaze with a quizzical look. “They're making my feet sweat.” We're off to a great start.  
“Sure, doll. You can put your feet in the ice bucket for all I care.”  
“Really?” I might do just that.  
“Whatever floats your fucking boat.” He takes a sip of the beer and sinks back into the couch, seeming to be enjoying himself thoroughly. His arm extends over towards my shoulder, and I realise how odd his hands look without his glove, or Lucille. I shimmy the shoes off my feet and cross my legs on the couch. There's a moment of silence, and I bite my lip, realising I'm nervous.  
“So...” I can feel my pulse snapping uncomfortably at my throat once more, and I meet his gaze from underneath raised brows. “...Why are we – you know – why are we, like, doing this?”  
“I figured it would be enjoyable to get to know you better.”  
“Do you like it when women try and punch you in the face?” I blurt, swiftly recalling why I never had many successful dates in college. Negan throws his head back and laughs, running fingers through his stubble.  
“I like a woman with balls, that's for sure. And you have a mighty big pair of 'em.” He takes another sip, and I see his tongue dart out to lick a few escaped droplets from the neck of the bottle. “Where'd you find that dress?” He's raking his eyes over my body again, and I try to make myself feel at ease under his gaze. I bite my lip, unsure whether to divulge, but eventually my reminder of Simon's words winning me over.  
“Amber is loaning it out to me.” I say, and he raises his eyebrows, evidently surprised.  
“You spoke to her? After what happened yesterday? I figured my wives would all hate you after the things you said.” He chuckles, but his eyes betray curiosity.  
“We hung out.”  
“You 'hung out'?” He looks at me quizzically, and I nod, idly playing with the hem of the dress. “Oh... did you hang out?” His smile becomes a devilish grin, and I shoot him a glare, feeling my nose crinkle in distaste. “You did, didn't you? Did you have some quality girl time together?”  
“My sexuality is none of your business.” I snap, my hands coiled into tense fists in my lap. I hold his gaze, jaw set, frustration making my skin prickle. Outside, I hear a rumble deep in the gut of the sky – and turn my face toward the window to see darkening clouds coalescing together like collections of bruises. My fingers twitch where they're curled tight, and I notice how I've been steadily biting away at my nails and the skin around them over the past however-long. Since the world fractured and fell. I had almost forgotten the hatred that men like Negan stirred in me.  
He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, half-words that die on his tongue as he tries to search for better ones. I see my own face reflected in the ajar window, my eyes searing besides the newly-growling sky.  
“I...” I see his hand travel towards my leg in my peripheral vision, but fall short of my knee to land in the couched space between us. I cast anxious glances his way, hear his nails card through his beard. “...I'm really fucking sorry. That was a joke – a really god-awful one at that.” He hangs his head a little, and I see how strangely soft the palm of his hand looks. The short, clean nails. I had expected – without perhaps realising it – for him to have calluses, dirt, scabs on the first four knuckles. But his hands are soft and tanned, peppered with sun lines and freckles. My heart twinges with a barb of empathy.  
“It was pretty bad.” I grumble, shrugging a shoulder.  
“I didn't mean to sound like such a prick. But the things I say usually come out sounding that way.” He chuckles under his breath, dark eyes settling on my face. Languid. Soft. Tired. “I won't talk about it again – but for the record, it doesn't matter whether you like dick or pussy. Or both. Or none. It sure as shit ain't any of my business.” A tendril of dark hair falls over his brow as the resounding snarl of thunder clashes outside. His shoulders jerk, and he raises his head to glance outside. A momentary flash of panic crosses his handsome, wan face. “You want me to shut that?”  
“It's fine. I don't mind.”  
“Well. I'm gonna shut that shit anyway.” He stands up, clearing his throat and moving to stoop besides the window. He deftly unlatches it and brings it shut, and suddenly the sound of the thunder is pleasantly suffused and distant. His shoulders visibly slump a little in relief before he comes to sit back down beside me, arm stretching out once more. His fingers ghost over the back of the seat, coming to rest several inches from my head. He could reach down and stroke my hair, I realise. Or grab me by the throat and throttle me.  
“What happened to Carson?” I ask as he props his feet on the glass table between us.  
“Him?” He says with a lupine grimace that shows teeth. “Doll, I don't know if we should talk about that. Contrary to what you said, I don't exactly get hard thinking of your fist pummelling my face.” Takes another sip of his beer, he traces the neck against his bottom lip as he watches me, ruminating. “Something tells me you're not going to drop it.”  
I quirk my eyebrows by way of response, and he sighs. Exhales through his nose, a deep, soft sound that might send me to sleep in any other scenario.  
“You and I both know he had to die for what he did.” He looks up at me through soft black lashes, surprisingly long. I'm reminded of the way Simon's curl on his cheeks as he sleeps, and feel unsettled by the bizarre resemblance between the two men. Outside, rain is beginning to lash the window, streaming in silvery rivulets over the glass. The fuscia glow of the sunset burning the horizon dances in Negan's eyes.  
“You had no proof that it was him who wrote that note.” I say. “You should have put him on trial. Locked him up whilst you searched for evidence.”  
“Well, perhaps we need your bright ideas here.” He beams, though his gaze is rueful. “You seemed awfully attached to the old guy.”  
“I just did the right thing.” I murmur, uncomfortable under that curious tawny gaze. He studies me for a moment, pursing his lips. Postulating a question. “What is it?” I add sheepishly.  
“You don't seem afraid of me, that's all.” He takes another swig, his lips wet, and the smell of beer reminds me of home. Summer nights out on the porch sitting shoulder to shoulder with my best friend, watching blackbirds and crows jump branches in the trees on my drive. Talking until dusk was left far behind us and we were left with our faces black and blue in the shadows of the evening.  
I laugh, and perhaps the memory of those nights makes the sound lighter, because I see Negan's mouth twitch into a smile.  
“There's not much I'm scared of nowadays.” I say, placing my feet back on the ground and curling my toes in the fronds of the plush grey carpet.  
“Why's that? Were you born this bad-ass, or...?”  
“No. No way, it's not even like that.” I shake my head and turn to see how fissures in the cloud peppering the horizon give way for pink light to filter through. “It's just, I've lost everything I cared about. So no one has leverage over me anymore. Even the thought of being swallowed up one day out there in the woods... it doesn't scare me so much. It's just nature. Everything eats everything in the end.”  
“Doll, that's fucking depressing.”  
“Don't call me that.”  
“Savannah, then. That's fucking depressing.” He stands up and moves towards a cupboard adjacent to the oven and begins searching. “What about 'Sav'? Can I call you that?”  
“No.”  
“Oh. Okay.” He looks disheartened, before adding, “Can I get you anything? A drink? Tea, maybe? I always thought chicks dug tea.” I smirk, noticing how his brow is furrowed in thought, his trousers slipping a little low over the cleft of his ass. Underneath his grey t-shirt, a sliver of tanned lower back is visible. I force my gaze away, watching the ceiling.  
“Sure. Do you have any peach tea?”  
“Iced or hot?” He straightens up, and I feel my mouth twist at the corner whilst I deliberate. “Some time this fucking century would be rad.”  
“Iced?”  
“Iced it is.” And he snatches his walky talky from the tabletop and orders Joey to fetch me some tea from the kitchen. “And bring the lady dinner soon too, she's so thin I could post her through a mother-fucking letterbox.” He throws the walky talky onto his bed before adding, “I mean that in a hot way, of course.”  
“Of course.”

Several minutes later and Joey shakily opens the door with his elbow, grinning in a scared way that doesn't reach his eyes. I rush to my feet to help him with the silver tray in his arms, hauling it against my chest. The tall jug of peach iced tea – complete with several sprigs of mint, lemon slices and clinking cubes of ice – slides towards me and sits itself against the tip of my nose.  
“Thanks.” I murmur to Joey, whose cheeks have flushed pink. He backs out of the room, muttering a “Sorry” and closes the door behind him. In addition, I note that on the tray are two dishes of ravioli, hot enough to make my hands smart where they grip the tray. The smell of coconut milk and lemon-grass consumes my senses and I find myself slavering unattractively.  
“Excellent!” Negan booms from behind me, so loud that I jerk in shock and the tray slides dangerously in my arms. “Here, let me-” Despite my mumbled protests, he wrestles the tray from my arms and sets it down on the table. “Thank fucking god, Daddy is starving!”  
I blink slowly, watching him as he kneels on the carpet. “Daddy?” I parrot, and he looks up at me.  
“That sounds real good when you say it.” He crosses his legs and I find myself standing with my hands on my hips, in a way that I can only describe as echoing my mother in times of distress. I can't seem to find a correlation between the man sat in front of me eating ravioli in his socks and referring to himself as 'Daddy', and the man from the day before. “Can you say it again, but without the angry look on your face?”  
“Go screw yourself.”  
“I think what you mean is 'go screw yourself, Daddy.'”  
“Please, stop.” I press my fingers against my brow and surrender to my spot on the floor opposite him, pouring myself a glass of iced tea and taking a sip. I sigh, something about it stirring a feeling of nostalgia in me. We eat mostly in silence, which strikes me as odd as I consider Negan to be a person who has no problem with occupying silences. We speak only of the food, which satiates the gnawing hunger in my stomach and tastes amazing.  
“Did Dahlia make this?” I ask, gesturing to the meal, the vast majority of which has been eaten. I realise how malnourished I must have been whilst travelling, as I notice I've eaten far more than Negan. If I didn't detest him so much, I might be embarrassed. “Because if she did, I feel like I owe her something. A limb. My life, maybe.”  
“Was it that good?” He chuckles, and I nod fervently. “I have no idea who the fuck that is, but I'm glad.”  
“You don't keep tab on your workers?” I ask through a sip of iced tea.  
“That's Simon's job.” He says, and the way his mouth moves around his name smacks of distaste. “If I spent my whole damn day getting familiar with fucking Kenneth and Spencer who work on the furnace or whatever shit, I'd have no time do to anything else.”  
“Like fuck your multitude of wives?” I quip, before my stomach sinks like a stone and I realise what I've just said. I entertain my gaze with the jug of peach iced tea and worry my bottom lip between my teeth.  
“Precisely.” He, to my surprise, laughs. Leaning back against the couch, he regards me with a kind of warmth that makes me wonder what exactly he's thinking. “Would you like to move this to the bed?” He asks, voice dangerously low. I feel my face blanch in panic, and I almost drop the glass in my shaking hand.  
“Excuse – what?” I set down the glass ceremoniously and try to ignore how my pulse absolutely rockets around my body.  
“I figured the bed might be more comfortable to sit on.” He grins – and it's a shit-eating one, not even an ordinary I'm-a-cock grin – as he gets up. “But it seems like you had your mind on something else entirely.” He moves over to the bed and reclines across it, laying on his back with his long legs outstretched, toed feet dangling off the end of the mattress.  
“I absolutely was not thinking about whatever you think I was thinking about.” I hurry over the words as I grip the jug of iced tea in my hands.  
“Now you're starting to sound like Eugene.”  
“I don't want to have sex with you.” I announce, rather loudly. And good. I hope the whole building hears. My cheeks burn furiously. I don't. I don't want to have sex with him. No. And even if the whim possessed me, I wouldn't allow myself.  
“Well, I'm glad you got that out your system.” He guffaws. “I certainly don't want to screw a girl who's unwilling. Now, can you get your skinny ass over here? It's hurting my fucking neck just trying to look at you from this position.”  
Begrudgingly, I set down the jug and move towards the bed, angrily setting the ice bucket on the carpet and plunging my feet into its gelid depths as I lower myself down onto the bed. I hiss under my breath as I curl my toes in the ice, exhaling at the relief it brings my itching, burning soles. Outside, the storm continues to snarl and lash its claws against the window. Negan turns on a bedside lamp – similar to the one in my new room, made from reformed fragments of glass – and a warm glow bathes the room. Golden light winks off the ice surrounding my feet.  
“Shit, you weren't joking about doing that.” He says, craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of my feet. “You're a funny girl, Savannah.”  
I regard him questioningly, biting back the urge to remind him that, odd as I am, at least I don't refer to myself in the third person as 'Daddy.'  
“People keep saying that.” I sigh ruefully, wriggling my toes as the ice begins to slump into cold water between them. Anxiety begins to churn in my stomach as I recall the reason I came here, and shame twists into me with a knife-sharp edge as I realise that, despite his unconventionality and crassness, I've been enjoying Negan's company. “I wanted to ask you something, actually.” I say, and he stretches his arms over his head, running his fingers through his dark hair. My god, he looks handsome.  
“Shoot, kid. I'm all yours.” He looks anxious to hear what I have to say. I chew on my lip again, realising that this is something I seem to often do in his presence.  
“I might need your help.”  
He frowns, studying me intently. “Elaborate.”  
I try to control the shallowness of my breathing, quelling my anxiety as I watch the storm through the windows. I talk to him. I talk and I talk until my mouth feels sandpaper dry, and the tumultuous clouds begin to part in the darkening sky, revealing an endless mirage of stars. When I'm done, most of the ice in the bucket has melted to water, and I taste something salty drip onto my bottom lip. I lick away the tear and sniff, curling my hands in his black bedclothes as if looking for an anchor. Something to hold me to shore.  
“And he needs to die.” I murmur. “That's how it has to be. There's no other way. I can't – I can't see a future with him still alive.”  
When I turn my head to glance anxiously back at Negan, expression is completely alien. Those tawny eyes are glittering with something, and his mouth is slightly ajar. He clears his throat and sits up, his hair mussed, his face sunken and handsome and wrought with some kind of painful weight.  
“And you survived all of that shit.” He sighs, and I take a moment to try and figure out whether this is a question or not. I avert my eyes and see us sitting shoulder to shoulder in the window. What a mess we both are. “That's... something.” And with that, he slides his hand over mine.  
I become very still all of a sudden. My fingers begin to shake as I feel his warm skin sliding over mine, his palm soft on my knuckles. My fingers bitten down to the nub. Crooked. Pale. His hands are far larger, tanned and calloused and clean.  
I inhale. Exhale. After a moment of deliberation, I allow him to entwine his fingers with my own. I can feel his pulse beating hot and fast and deliberate in my palm, as if I were holding his heart. My brain races to try and accommodate what just happened, but he speaks before I have the chance.  
“You want me to kill him for you?” He asks.  
“No.” I say quickly. “I want to do it. I need help tracking him.”  
He nods gravely. “What kind of help do you mean? I'll need specifics if I'm going to invest time in this.” A small, sad smile tugs at his mouth. “And I'm sorry. For what happened to the girl. For what that sack of shit put you through.”  
I bite down on my lip and watch the place where his hand melts into mine. “I suppose, if I'm specific about it... I'd need a skilled tracker to help me search the river lodge where we stayed – to find traces of his whereabouts. Any clues to where he might be headed next. I, uhm... I think that's it, though.” I tuck a tendril of hair behind my ear and shrug a shoulder.  
“I can make that happen.” He says resolutely, relishing his power over the situation. I'm sure he's standing upright in his jeans just envisioning my look of awe when he snaps his fingers and his men come to my aid. I wrinkle my nose, wishing I didn't so badly need the extra help. “For a price, of course.” Oh.  
I immediately drop my hand from where it's twined with his and abruptly stand up, completely forgetting that my feet are still swilling in ice cold slush. I stumble a little as I hop from the bucket.  
“No.” I spin around to face him, cheeks searing puce. “No, I'm not going to – I'm not going to marry you, or kiss you, or have anything to do with you. Fuck that.”  
“Language, kid.”  
“Fuck you!” I leave wet footprints in my wake as I squelch into my shoes – if 'squelching' into something is in the realms of possibility, which I don't suppose it is – and make a beeline for the door.  
“Sav-”  
“No.” I wrench open the door with one hand and he seizes my wrist suddenly, holding me in a loose but unyielding grip. His face is dangerously close, and he's biting back a lupine grin.  
“I don't want you to marry me. Or fuck me.” He says quietly, surprising me in the way he glances out into the corridor, as if checking that no one hears him. “I mean, if you were willing, of course I'd take you up on that offer – but no. I'm not going to ask you for that, and definitely not in exchange for helping you find and kill a skid-mark on the pants of humanity.” He says. “If I could, I'd happily do that shit for free. But Savannah, everything has a price nowadays – and all I ask for is your loyalty in return for mine.” The crickets outside have resumed their chirping, as if watching our conversation like a play and uttering their comments on the script. Negan laughs quietly, gently releasing his grip on me. Looks up through soft black lashes.  
“What does that mean?” I lean against the door-frame, trying to claim some distance between he and I.  
“I want you to work for me.” He says, head cocked back to rest on the door. This sounds like a well-rehearsed speech, something perfected and rehearsed and replayed for countless other newcomers. It sounds binding, like a contract. “You stay here, you work – whatever job you want, within reason – and in exchange for your labour I'll give you a helping hand.”  
“Whatever job I want?”  
“Indeedy.” His grin reveals soft, puckered dimples around his mouth. “Whether that's working in the library, gardening, cooking, fighting the dead – if you can do it, the job is yours. Those are my conditions. So, what do you say?”  
I cross my arms contemplatively and think for a moment. “I'll help hunt and kill the corpses.”  
“Perfect. We'll start tomorrow at dawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Amber.  
> Almost every person in TWD fandom I've seen writes Amber as either a petulant little girl or a scheming bitch, and I honestly don't see it. I really wanted to strike up an unlikely friendship between the two characters, and also delve into how Negan's wives must really feel. 
> 
> Also gosh darn, writing Negan makes me blush all the damn time.  
> Constructive crit welcome as always. Enjoy! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is one of my first forays into Walking Dead fanfiction, so please bear with me if some of my observations are a little inaccurate. Enjoy!


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